Planet Stories v04n08 (1950 Fall)

?LANET

stories

VOL 4, NO. 8 • A FICTION HOUSE MAGAZINE • FALL, 1950

^ tylamuup Novel o{ the Statoeatf*

THE REBEL OF VALKYR Alfred Coppel 4

. . . From the Dark Ages of Space emerged the Second Empire . . . ruled by a
child, a usurper and a fool! The Great Throne of Imperial Earth commanded a
thousand vassal worlds — bleak, starved worlds that sullenly whispered of galactic
revolt ... At last, like eagles at a distant eyrie, the Star-Kings gathered , . . not
to whisper, but to strike!

^ *) r ioa Powebfful Novelet*

THE SKY IS FALLING C. H. Liddell 42

The Blow-Up was coming. It was near, near . . . Johnny Dyson knew he would see
it soon. One minute. Earth. The next . . . little Nova, weeping radioactive dust into
the Void. Then Johnny and the Robot would build an Eden on Mars . . .

STAR SHIP Poul Anderson 66

The strangest space-castaways of all I The Terran Explorers left their great inter-
stellar ship unmanned in a tight orbit around Khazok — descended, all of them, In
a lifeboat to investigate that alien, weirdly medieval world — and the lifeboat
cracked up I

^ rf-ive ^faulting, SUosit Slo^ued.

DEATH-WISH . .Ray Bradbury 29

They wandered the dead and fragile cities, looking for the legendary Blue Bottle —
not knowing what it was, nor caring, not really wanting to find it . . . ever . . .

THE CROWDED COLONY Jay B. Drexel 36

The Conquerors laughed loudly at the dusty shrines, those crude and homely tem-
ples in the desert. More softly laughed the Martians, who dreamed of laughing
last . . ,

MEEM Margaret St. Clair 58

The fog-shrouded marshlands of Vaudria seethed with manhunt . . . and Duncan,
with his stolen secret, sought refuge in the Earth-Ship GORGO. Safe behind steel
. . . until . . .

STRANGE EXODUS Robert Abernathy 85

Gigantic, mindless, the Monsters hod come out of space to devour Earth. Where,
on this gutted, cosmic carcass, could humanity flee?

PATCH William Shedenhelm 93

Old pilots like Pop Gillette weren't needed any longer to handle the big ships . . .
until everything went haywire on the Venus run I

Planet'* Petjulasi rf-eatusie

THE VIZIGRAPH by The Readers 98

T. T. SCOTT, President JEROME BIXBY, Editor MALCOLM REISS, General Manager

PLANET STORIES: Published quarterly by Love Romances Pub. Co. , Inc., 130 W. 42 8t., New York IS. N. Y. The entire contents
or tills magazine are copyrighted, 1950, by Love Romances Publishing Ca, Ino. Entered as second-class matter, October 2, 1944, at
0®°°' at New York 1, N. Y. , under the Aet of March 3, 1879. All rights reserved. While duo care is always exercised, the
publishers will not be responsible for the return of unsolicited manuscripts. Price 20e per copy. Yearly subscription rate 80f in ad-
vance. For advertising rates »d(Jret5 ; Advertising Director, Fiction House, Inc., 130 W, 42 8t., Now York 18, N, Y. Printed in V. 3. A.

>1 I I « liW * r- ■'

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the Rebel of

Valkyr

By ALFRED COPPEL

OUT OF THE DARK AGES OF
the Interregnum emerged the Second Em-
pire. Once again in the space of a millennium,
the banner of Imperial Earth waved above
the decimated lands of the inhabited worlds.
Four generations of conquerors, heirs to
the greatness of the Thousand Emperors,
had recreated the Galactic Empire, by force
of arms. But technology, the Great De-
stroyer, was feared and forbidden. Only
uhtches, warlocks and sorcerers remem-
bered the old knowledge, and the mobs,
tortured by the racial memories of the
awful destruction of the Civil Wars, stoned
these seekers and burned them in the
squares of towns built amid the rubble of
the old wars. The ancient, mighty space-
ships — indestructible, eternal — carried men
and horses, fire atul sword across the
Galaxy at the bidding of the warlords. The
Second Empire — four generations out of
isolated savagery — feudal, grim; a culture
held together by bonds forged of blood and
iron and the loyalty of the warrior star-
kings . . .

— Quintus Bland,

Essays on Galactic History.

I

K ieron, warlord of val-

kyr, paced the polished floor angrily.
The flickering lights of the vast

mirrored chamber glinted from the jewels
in his ceremonial harness and shimmered
down the length of his silver cape. For
a moment, the star-king paused before the
tall double doors of beaten bronze, his
strong hands toying with the hilt of his
sword. The towering Janizaries of the
Palace Guard stood immobile on either
side of the arching doorway, their great
axes resting on the flagstones. It was as
though the dark thoughts that coursed
through Kieron's mind were — to them —
unthinkable. The huge warriors from the
heavy planets of the Pleiades were stolid,
loyal, unimaginative. And even a star-king
did not dream of assaulting the closed por-
tals of the Emperor’s chambers.

Kieron’s fingers opened and closed spas-
modically over the gem-crusted pommel of
his weapon; his dark eyes glittered with
unspent fury. Muttering an oath, he
turned away from the silent door and
resumed his pacing. His companion, a
brawny man in the plain battle harness of
Valkyr, watched him quietly from under
bushy yellow brows. He stood with his
great arms folded over the plaits of griz-
zled yellow hair that hung to his waist, his
deeply-lined face framed by the loosened
lacings of a winged helmet. A huge sword
hugged his naked thigh; a massive blade
with worn and sweat-stained hilt.

The lord of Valkyr paused in his angry

. . . From fhe Dark Ages of Space emerged the Second Empire . . .
ruled by a child, a usurper and a fool! The Great Throne of Imperial
Earth commanded a thousand vassal worlds — bleak, starved worlds
that sullenly whispered of galactic revolt ... At last, like eagles at a
distant eyrie, the Star-kings gathered . . . not to whisper, but to strike!

4 '

Like great silver fish leaping up into the hotel of night, the ships of the Valkyr

fleet rose from Kalgan « • •

6 PLANE T

pacing to glare at his aide. “By the Great
Destroyer, Nevitta! How long are we to
stand this?”

“Patience, Kieron, patience.” The old
warrior spoke with the assurance of life-
long familiarity. “They try us sorely, but
we have waited three weeks. A little
longer can do no harm.”

“Three weeks!” Kieron 'scowled at Ne-
vitta. “Will they drive us into rebellion?
Is that their intention? I swear I would
not have taken this from Gilmer himself !”

“The great Emperor would never have
dealt with us so. The fighting men of
Valkyr were ever closest to his heart,
Kieron. This is a way of doing that
smacks of a woman’s hand.” He spat on
the polished floor. “May the Seven Hells
claim her!”

Kieron grunted shortly and turned again
toward the silent door. Ivane! Ivane the
Fair . . . Ivane the schemer. What devil's
brew was she mixing now? Intrigue had
always been her weapon — and now that
Gilmer was gone and she stood by the
Great Throne . . .

Kieron cursed her roundly under his
breath. Nevitta spoke the truth. There was
Ivane’s hand in this, as surely as the stars
made Galaxies!

Three weeks wasted. Long weeks.
Twenty-one full days since their ships had
touched the Imperial City. Days of fight-
ing through the swarms of dilettantes and
favor-seekers that thronged the Imperial
Palace. There had been- times when Kieron
had wanted to cut a path through the
fawning dandies with his sword !

Gilmer of Kaidor lay dead a full year
and still the new Court was a madhouse
of simpering sycophants. Petitions were
being granted by the score as the favorites
collected their long-delayed largess from
the boy-Emperor Toran. And Kieron
knew well enough that whatever favors
were granted came through the ambitious
hands of the Consort Ivane. She might not
be allowed to wear the crown of an Em-
press without the blood of the Thousand
Emperors in her veins, but by now no one
at Court denied that she was the fountain-
head of Imperial favor. Yet that wasn’t
really enough for her, Kieron knew. Ivane
dreamed of better things. And because of
all this hidden by-play, the old favorites
of the warrior Gilmer were snubbed and

STORIES

refused audience. A new inner circle was
building, and Kieron of Valkyr was not —
it w as plain to see — to be included. He was
prevented even from presenting his just
complaints to the Emperor Toran.

O THER MATTERS, he was told
again and again, occupied His Im
perial Majesty’s attention. Other matters!
Kieron could feel the anger hot and throb-
bing in his veins. What other matters
could there be of more importance to a
sovereign than the loyalty of his finest
fighting men? Or if Toran was a fool
as the courtiers privately claimed, then
surely Ivane had more intelligence than
to keep a Warlord of the Outer Marches
cooling his heels in antechambers for three
weeks ! The Lady Ivane, herself so proud,
should know how near to rebellion were
the warrior peoples of the Periphery.

Under such deliberate provocations it
•was difficult to loyally ignore the invitation
of Freka of Kalgan to meet with the other
star-kings in grievance council. Rebellion
was not alluring to one like Kieron who
had spent his boyhood fighting beside Gil-
mer, but there was a limit to human en-
durance, and he was fast reaching it.

“Nevitta,” Kieron spoke abruptly.
“Were you able to find out anything con-
cerning the Lady Alys?”

The grizzled warrior shook his head.
“Nothing but the common talk. It is said
that she has secluded herself, still mourn-
ing for Gilmer. You know, Kieron, how
the little princess loved her father.”

The lord of Valkyr frowmed thought-
fully. Yes, it was true enough that Alys
had loved Gilmer. He could remember
her at the great Emperor's side after the
battle of Kaidor. Even the conquered in-
terregnal lords of that u’orld had claimed
that Gilmer would have surrendered the
planet if they had been able to capture his
daughter. The bond between father and
daughter had been a close one. Possibly
Alys had secluded herself to carry on with
her mourning — ‘but Kieron doubted it.
That would not have been Gilmer’s way,
nor his daughter’s.

“Things w r ould be different here,” said
Nevitta with feeling, “if the little prin-
cess ruled instead of Toran.”

Very different, thought Kieron. The
foolish Toran bid fair to lose what four

THE REBEL

generations of loyal fighters had built up
out of the rubble of the dark ages. Alys,
the warrior princess, would add to the
glory of the Imperium, not detract from it.
But perhaps he was prejudiced in her fa-
vor, reflected Kieron. It was hard not to
be.

He recalled her laughing eyes and her
courage. A slim child, direct in manner
and bearing. Embarrassing him before his
roaring Valkyrs with her forthright pro-
testations of love. The armies had wor-
shipped her. A lovely child — with pride of
race written into her patrician face. But
compassionate, too. Gravely comforting the
dying and the wounded with a touch or a
word.

Eight years had passed since bloody
Kaidor. The child of twelve would be a
woman now. And, thought Kieron anx-
iously, a threat to the ascendant power
of the Consort Ivane . . .

T he tall bronze doors

swung open suddenly, and Kieron
turned. But it was not the Emperor who
stood there framed in the archway, nor
even the Consort. It was the gem-bedecked
figure of Landor, the First Lord of Space.

Kieron snorted derisively. First Lord!
The shades of the mighty fighters who had
carried that title through a thousand of
Imperial Earth’s battles must have been
sickened by young Toran’s ... or Ivane’s
. . . choice of the mincing courtier who
now stood before him.

The more cynical courtiers said that
Landor had won his honors in Ivane’s
bed, and Kieron could well believe it. Out
in the vast emptinesses of the Edge men
lived by different standards. Out there
a woman was a woman — a thing to be
loved or beaten, cherished or enjoyed and
cast off — but not a touchstone to wealth
and power. Kieron had loathed Landor
on sight, and there was reason enough to
believe that the First Lord reciprocated
most completely. It was not wise for any-
one, even a Warlord, to openly scorn the
Consort’s favorites — but restraint was not
one of the lord of Valkyr’s virtues, though
even Nevitta warned him to take care.
Assassination was a fine art in the Im-
perial City, and one amply subsidized by
the First Lord of Space.

“Well, Landor?” Kieron demanded, dis-

OF VALKYR 7

daining to use Landor’s title.

Landor’ s smoothly handsome features
showed no expression. The pale eyes veiled
like a serpent’s. ,

“I regret,” the First Lord of Space said
easily, “that His Imperial Majesty has re-
tired for the night, Valkyr. Under the
circumstances . . /’ He spread his slender
hands in a gesture of helplessness.

The lie was obvious. Through the open
doorway of the royal chambers came the
murmuring sound of laughter and the
reedy melody of a minstrel’s pipes in the
age-old ballad of Lady Greensleeves. Kier-
on could hear Toran’s uncertain voice sing-
ing:

Greensleeves was all my joy,
Greensleeves was all my joy,

And who but Lady Greensleeves ?”
Kieron could imagine the boy — lolling
foolishly before the glittering Ivane, try-
ing to win with verses what any man could
have for a pledge of loyalty to the Con-
sort.

The Valkyr glared at Landor. “I’m not
to be received, is that it? By the Seven
Hells, why don’t you say what you mean ?”
Landor’s smile was scornful. “You out-
worlders! You should learn how to be-
have, really. Perhaps later . . .’*

“Later be damned !” snapped Kieron.
“My people are starving now! Your grub-
bing tax-gatherers are wringing us dry!
How long do you think they’ll stand for
it? How long do you imagine I will stand
for it?”

“Threats, Valkyr?” asked the First
Lord, his eyes suddenly venomous.
“Threats against your Emperor? Men
have been whipped to death for much
less.”

“Not men of Valkyr,” retorted Kieron.
“The men of Valkyr no longer hold the
favored position they once did, Kieron. I
counsel you to remember that.”

“True enough,” Kieron replied scorn-
fully. “Under Gilmer, fighting men were
the power of the Empire. Now Toran
rules with the hands of women . . . and
dancing masters.”

T HE FIRST LORD’S FACE dark-
ened at the insult. He laid a hand
on the hilt of his ornate sword, but the
Valkyr’s eyes remained insolent. The huge
Nevitta stirred, measuring the Pleiadene

8 PLANET

Janizaries at the door, ready for trouble.

But Landor had no stomach for sword-
play — particularly with as young and sup-
ple a fighter as the Warlord of Valkyr.
His own ready tongue was a better weapon
than steel. With an effort, he forced him-
self to smile. It was a cold smile, pregnant
with subtle danger.

“Harsh words, Valkyr. And unwise. I
shall not forget them. I doubt that you
will be able to see His Majesty, since I do
not believe the tribulations of a planet
of savages would concern him. You waste
your time here. If you have other business,
you had better be about it.”

It was Kieron’s turn to feel the hot goad
of anger. “Are those Toran’s words or
I vane’s dancing master?”

“The Consort Ivane, of course, agrees.
If your people cannot pay their taxes, let
them sell a few of their brats into ser-
vice,” Landor said smoothly.

The die was cast, then, thought Kieron
furiously. All hope for an adjustment
from Toran was gone and only one course
lay open to him now.

“Nevitta! See that our men and horses
are loaded tonight and the ships made
ready for space!”

Nevitta saluted and turned to go. He
paused, looked insolently at the First
Lord, and deliberately spat on the floor.
Then he was gone, his spurs ringing metal-
lically as he disappeared through the high
curving archway.

“Savage,” muttered Landor.

“Savage enough to be loyal and worthy
of any trust,” said Kieron ; “but you
would know nothing of that.”

Landor ignored the thrust. “Where do
you go now, Valkyr?”

“Off-world.”

“Of course,” Landor smiled thinly, his
evebrows arching over pale, shrewd eyes.
“Off-world.”

Ivieron felt a stab of suspicion. How
much did Landor know? Had his spies
pierced Freka the Unknown’s counter-
espionage cordon and brought word of the
star-kings gathering on Ivalgan ?

“It cannot concern you where I go now,
Landor,” said Kieron grimly. “You’ve
won here. But . . .” Kieron stepped a pace
nearer the resplendent favorite. “Warn
your tax-gatherers to go armed when they
land on Valkyr. Well armed, Landor.”

STORIES

Kieron turned on his heel and strode
out of the antechamber, his booted heels
staccato on the flagstones, silver cape
flaunting like a proud banner.

II

F lST THE TALL ARCH OF THE
Emperor’s antechamber lay the Hall
of the Thousand Emperors. Kieron strode
through it, the flickering flames of the
wall-sconces casting long shadows out
behind him — shadows that danced and
whirled on the tapestried walls and touched
the composed faces of the great men of
Earth.

These were brooding men; men who
stared down at him out of their thousand
pasts. Men who had stood with a planet
for a throne and watched their Empire
passing in ordered glory from horizon to
horizon across the night sky of Earth —
men worshipped as gods on out-world
planets, who watched and guided the tide
of Empire until it crashed thundering on
the shores of ten thousand worlds beyond
Vega and Altair. Men who sat cloaked
in sable robes with diamond stars en-
crusted and saw their civilization built out
from the Great Throne, tier on shining
tier until at last it reached the Edge and
strained across the awful gulf for the
terrible seetee suns of mighty Andromeda
itself ....

The last few of the men like gods had
watched the First Empire crumble. They
had seen the wave of annihilation sweeping
in from the Outer Marches of the Peri-
phery; had seen their gem-bright civiliza-
tion shattered with destructive forces so
hideous that the spectre of the Great De-
troyer hung like a mantle of death over
the Galaxy, a thing to be shunned and
feared forever. And thus had come the
Interregnum.

Kieron had no eyes for these brooding
giants ; his world was not the world they
had known. It was in the next chamber
that the out-world warrior paused. It was
a vast and empty place. Here there were
but five figures and space for a thousand
more. This was the Empire that Kieron
knew. This Empire he had fought for and
helped secure ; a savage, darkling thing
spawned in the dark ages of the Interreg-
num, a Galaxy- spanning fief of star-

THE REBEL

kings and serfs— -of warlocks and space-
ships — of light and shadow. This Empire
had been bom in the agony of a Galaxy
and tempered in the bitter internecine wars
of reconquest.

Before the image of Gilmer of Kaidor,
Kieron stopped. He stood in silence, look-
ing into the face of his dead liege. The
hour was late and the Hall deserted. Kier-
on knelt, suddenly filled with sadness. He
was on his way to rebellion against the
Empire that he had helped this stern-faced
man to expand and hold — rebellion against
the power of Imperial Earth, personified
by the weak-faced boy standing draped
in the sable mantle of sovereignty in the
next niche. Kieron looked from father to
son. By its composure and its nearness to
the magnetic features of the great Gilmer,
the face of young Toran seemed to draw
character and strength. It was an illusion,
Kieron knew.

The young Valkyr felt driven hard. His
people hungered. Military service was no
longer enough for the Imperial Govern-
ment as it had been for decades. Money
was demanded, and there was no money
on Valkyr. So the people hungered — and
Kieron was their lord. He could not stand
by and see the agony on the faces of his
warrior maids as their children weakened,
nor could he see his proud warriors selling
themselves into slavery for a handful of
coins. The Emperor would not listen.
Kieron had recourse only to the one thing
he knew . . . the sword.

He bowed his head and asked the shade
of Gilmer for forgiveness.

A SLIGHT MOVEMENT caught his
battle-sharpened eye as someone
stirred behind a fluted column. Kieron’s
sword -whispered as it slid from the scab-
bard, the gemmed hilt casting shards of
light into the dimness of the colonnade.

Treading softly, Kieron eased his tall
frame into the shadows, weapon alert. The
thought of assassination flashed across his
mind and he smiled grimly. Could it be
that Landor had his hirelings after him al-
ready ?

Kieron saw the shadowy shape slip from
the colonnade out onto the great curving
terrace that bordered the entire west wing
of the Palace. Eyes narrowed under his
black brows, the lord of Valkyr followed.

OF VALKYR 9

The stars gleamed in the moonless
night, and far below, Kieron could see the
flickering torchlights of the Imperial City
fanning out to the horizon like the spokes
of some fantastic, glittering wheel. The
dark figure ahead had vanished.

Kieron sheathed his sword and drew
his poniard. It was far too dark for sword-
play, and he did not wish to risk letting
the assassin escape. Melting into the shad-
ows of the colonade again, he made hi9
way parallel to the terrace, alert for any
sign of movement. Presently, the figure
appeared again beside the balustrade, and
the Valkyr moved swiftly and quietly up
behind. With a cat-like movement, he
slipped his free arm about the slight shape,
pulling it tight against himself. The pon-
iard flashed in his upraised hand, the
slender blade reflecting the starlight.

The weapon did not descend ....

Against his forearm, Kieron felt a yield-
ing softness, and the hair that brushed his
cheek was warm and perfumed.

He stood transfixed. The girl twisted
in his grasp and broke free with a gasp-
ing cry. Instantly, a blade gleamed in her
hand and she had launched herself at the
Valkyr furiously. Her voice was tight with
rage.

“Murdering butcher! You dare . . .!”

Kieron caught her upraised arm and
wrenched the dagger from her grasp. She
clawed at him, kicking, biting, but never
once calling aloud for aid. At last Kieron
was able to pin her to a column with his
weight, and he held her there, arms pin-
ioned to her sides.

“You hellcat!’' he muttered against her
hair, “Who are you?”

“You know well enough, you murdering
lackey! Why don’t you kill me and go
collect your pay, damn you!” gritted the
girl furiously. “Must you manhandle me
too?”

Kiernon gasped. “I kill you!” lie caught
the girl’s hair and pulled her head back
so that her features would catch the faint
glow of light from the city l>elow. “Who
are you, hellcat?”

The light outlined his own features and
the Arms of Valkyr on the clasp of his
cloak at his throat. The girl’s eyes wid-
ened. Slowly the tenseness went out of her
and she relaxed against him.

“Kieron! Kieron of Valkyr!”

10 PLANET

K IERON WAS STILL ALERT for
some trick. Landor could have hired
a female assassin just as well as a man.
“You know me?” he asked cautiously.
‘‘Know you!” She laughed suddenly,
and it was a silvery sound in the night.
“I loved you . . . beast !”

“By the Seven Hells, you- speak in
riddles! Who are you?” the Valkyr de-
manded irritably.

“And I thought you had come to kill
me,” mused the girl in self-reproach. “My
own Kieron!”

“I’m not your Kieron or anyone else’s,
Lady,” said Kieron rather stiffly, “and
you’d better explain why you were watch-
ing me in the Hall of Emperors before
I’ll let you go.”

“My father warned me that you would
forget me. I did not think you would be
so cruel,” she taunted.

“I knew’ your father?”

“Well enough, I think.”

“I’ve had a hundred wenches — and
known some of their fathers, too. You
can’t expect me to . . .”

“Not this wench, Valkyr!” the girl ex-
ploded furiously.

The tone carried such command that
Kieron involuntarily stepped back, but
still keeping the girl’s hands pinned to her
sides.

“If you had spoken so on Kaidor, I’d
have had the skin stripped from your back,
outv’orld savage!” she cried.

Kaidor ! Kieron felt the blood drain
away from his face. This, then, was . . .
Alys.

“Ha! So you remember now! Kaidor
you can recall, but you have forgotten me!
Kieron, you always were a beast!”

Kieron felt a smile spreading across his
face. It was good to smile again. And it
w T as good to know that Alys was . . . safe.
“Highness . . .”

“Don’t ‘Highness’ me!”

“Alys, then. Forgive me. I could not
have known you. After all it has been
eight years . . .”

“And there have been a hundred
v’enches . . .” mimicked the girl angrily.

Kieron grinned. “There really haven’t
been that many. I boasted.”

“Any would be too many !”

“You haven’t changed, Alys, except that
you ...”

STORIES

“Have growm so? Spare me that!” She
glared at him, eyes flaming in the shadows.
Then suddenly she was laughing again, a
silvery laugh that hung like a bright thread
in the soft tapestry of night sounds. “Oh,
Kieron, it is good to see you again!”

“I thought to hear from you, Alys,
when we reached Earth — but there was
nothing. No word of any kind. I was told
you were in seclusion still mourning Gil-
mer.”

LYS BOWED HER HEAD. “I will
never stop mourning him.” She
looked up, her eyes suddenly bright with
unshed tears. “Nor will you. I saw you
kneeling inside. I thought then that it
might be you. No one kneels to Gilmer
now but the old comrades.” She walked
to the balustrade and stood looking out
over the lights of the Imperial City. Kier-
on watched the play of emotions over her
face, caught suddenly by her beauty.

“I tried to reach you, Kieron — tried
hard. But my servants have been taken
from me since I was caught spying on
Ivane. And I’m kept under cover now,
permitted out only after dark — and then
only on the Palace grounds. Ivane has
convinced Toran that I’m dangerous. The
people like me because I was father’s
favorite. My poor stupid little brother!
How that woman rules him . . . !”

Kieron was aghast. “You spied on
Ivane? In heaven’s name, why?”

“That woman is a born plotter, Kieron.
She isn’t satisfied with a Consort’s coro-
net. She’s brewing something. Emmis-
saries have come to her from certain of
the star-kings and others . . ”

“Others?”

Alys’ voice was hushed. “A warlock,
Kieron! He lias been seeing Ivane pri-
vately for more than a year. An awful
man !”

Superstition stirred like a quickening
devil inside the Valkyr. The shuddering
horror of the dark and bloody tales he had
heard all his life about the warlocks who
clung to the knowledge of the Great De-
stroyer rose like a wave of blackness with-
in him.

Alys felt the same dark tide rising in
her. She moved closer to Kieron, her
slim body trembling slightly against his.
“The people would tear Ivane to pieces if

THE REBEL

they knew,” she whispered.

“You saw this warlock ?” asked Kieron,
sick with dread.

Alys nodded soundlessly.

Kieron fought down his fears and won-
dered uneasily what Ivane’s connection
could be with such a pariah. The warlocks
and witches were despised and feared
above all other creatures in the Galaxy.
“His name?” Kieron asked.

“Geller. Geller of the Marshes. It is
said that he is a conjurer of devils . . .
and that he can create homunculi! Out of
the very filth of the marshes I Oh, Kier-
on!” Alys shuddered.

An awful plan was forming in Kieron’s
mind. He was thinking that Ivane must
be stripped of the sigils and powers of
this devil-man. With such powers at her
command there might be nothing impos-
sible of attainment. Even the crown of
the Imperium itself ....

“Where,” Kieron asked slowly, “can
this warlock be found?”

“On the street of the Black Flame, in
the city of Neg ... on Kalgan.”

“Kalgan!” 'Kieron’s heart contracted.
Was there a connection? Kalgan! What
had Ivane to do with that lonely planet
beyond the dark veil of the Coalsack? Was
it coincidence? Out of all the thousands of
worlds in space . . . Kalgan.

“Is there something wrong, Kieron ?
You know this man?”

Kieron shook his head. It had suddenly
become more than imperative that he go
to Kalgan. The mystery of the Imperial
Consort’s connection with a warlock of
Kalgan must be unraveled. And the star-
kings were gathering ....

The Valkyr was suddenly taken wdth a
new and different fear. If Alys had spied
on Ivane, then she must be in danger here.
Ivane would never tolerate interference
with her plans from Gilmer’s daughter.
“Alys, are you a prisoner here?”
“More, I’m afraid,” the girl said sadly.
“I’m a reminder to Toran of the days of
our father. One that he would like to
eliminate, I think.”

K IERON STUDIED HER in the star-
light. His eyes sought the thick
golden hair that brushed her shoulders,
the glittering metallic skirt that hung low
on her hips, outlining the slim thighs. He

OF VALKYR 11

watched the graceful line of her unadorned
throat, the bare shoulders and breasts, the
small waist, the flat, firm stomach— all
revealed by the studied nakedness of the
fashions of the Inner Marches. This was
no child. The thought of her in danger
shook him badly.

“Toran would not dare harm you,
Alys,” said Kieron uncertainly. There had
been a time when he could have said such
a thing with perfect assurance, but since
the death of Gilmer, the Imperial City was
like an over-civilized jungle — full of beasts
of prey.

“No, Toran wouldn’t . . . alone,” said
Alys; “but there are Ivane and Landor.”
She laughed, suddenly gay ; her eyes, seek-
ing Kieron’s, were shining. “But not now !
You are here, Kieron!”

The Valkyr felt his heart contract.
“Alys,” he said softly, “I leave Earth to-
night. For Kalgan.”

“For Kalgan, Kieron?” Alys’ eyes wid-
ened. “To seek that warlock?”

“For another reason, Alys.” Kieron
paused uneasily. It was hard to speak to
Gilmer of Kaidor’s daughter about re-
bellion. Yet he could not lie to her. He
temporized.

“I have business with the lord of Kal-
gan,” he said.

Aly’s face was shadowed and her voice
when she spoke was sad. “Do the star-
kings gather, Kieron? Have they had all
they can stand of Toran’s foolish rule?”

Kieron nodded wordlessly.

The girl flared up with a sudden imperi-
ous anger. “That fool! He is letting the
favorites drive the Empire to ruin !” She
looked up at Kieron pleadingly. “Promise
me one thing, Kieron.”

“If I can.”

“That you will not commit yourself to
any rebellion until we have spoken again.”

“Alys, I . . .”

“Oh, Kieron! Promise me! If there is
no other way, then fight the Imperial
House. But give me one chance to save
what my father and his father died
for . . . !”

“And mine,” added Kieron sombrely.

“You know that if there is no other
way, I won’t try to dissuade you. But
while you are on Kalgan, I’ll speak to
Toran. Please, Kieron, promise me that
Valkyr will not rebel until we have tried

12 PLANET

everything.” Her eyes shone with passion.
“Then if it comes to war, I’ll ride by your
side!”

“Done, Alys,” said Kieron slowly. “But
take care when you speak to Toran. Re-
member there is danger here for you.” He
wondered briefly what Freka the Unknown
would think of his sudden reluctance to
commit the hundred spaceships and five
thousand warriors of Valkyr to the coming
rebellion. A thought struck him and quick-
ly he discarded it. For just an instant he
had wondered if Geller of the Marshes and
the mysterious Freka the Unknown might
be the same . . . Stranger things had
happened. But Alys had described Geller
as old, and Freka was known to be a six-
and-one-half foot warrior, the perfect
'type* of the star-king caste.

“One thing more, Alys,” Kieron said;
“I will leave one of my vessels here for
your use. Nevitta and a company will re-
main, too. Keep them by you. They will
guard you with their lives.” He slipped
his arm about her, holding her to him.

“Nevitta?” Alys said with a slow smile.
“Nevitta of the yellow braids and the great
sword? I remember him.”

“The braids are greying, but the sword
is as long as ever. He can guard you for
me, and keep you safe.”

The girl’s smile deepened at the words
'for me’ but Kieron did not notice. He was
deep in planning. “Be very careful, Alys.
And watch out for Landor.”

“Yes, Kieron,” the girl breathed meekly.
She looked up at the tall outworld war-
rior’s face, lips parted.

But Kieron was looking up at the stars
of the Empire, and there was uneasiness
in his heart. He tightened his arm about
Alys, holding her closer to him as though
to protect her from the hot gaze of those
fiery stars.

Ill

T he spaceship was ancient,

yet the mysterious force of the Great
Destroyer chained within the sealed coils
between the hulls drove it with unthink-
able speed across the star-shot darkness.
The interior was close and smoky, for the
only light came from oil lamps turned low
to slow the fouling of the air. Once, there
had been light without fire in the thousand-

STORMES

foot hulls, but the tiny orbs set into the
ceilings had failed for they were not of a
kind with the force in the sealed, eternal
coils.

On the lower decks, the horses of the
small party of Valkyr warriors aboard
stomped the steel deck-plates, impatient in
their close confinement ; while in the tiny
bubble of glass at the very prow of the
ancient vessel, two shamen of the heredi-
tary caste of Navigators drove the pulsing
starship toward the spot beyond the veil
of the Coal sack where their astrolabes
and armillary spheres told them that the
misty globe of Kalgan lay.

Many men — risking indictment as war-
locks or sorcerers — had tried to probe the
secrets of the Great Destroyer and com-
pute the speed of these mighty space-
craft of antiquity. Some had even claimed
a speed of 100,000 miles per hour for
them. But since the starships made the
voyage from Earth to the agricultural
worlds of Proxima Centauri in slightly
less than twenty-eight hours, such cal-
culations would place the nearest star-
system an astounding two million eight
hundred thousand miles from Earth — a
figure that was as absurd to all Navigators
as it was inconceivable to laymen.

The great spaceship bearing the War-
lord of Valkyr’s blazon solidified into
reality near Kalgan as its great velocity
diminished. It circled the planet to kill
speed and nosed down into the damp air
of the grey world. The high cloud cover
passed, it slanted down into slightly clear-
er air. Kalgan did not rotate: in its slow
orbit around the red giant parent star, the
planet turned first one face, and then
another to the slight heat of its sun. Great
oceans covered the poles, and • the central
land mass was like a craggy girdle of rock
and soil around the bulging equator. Only
in the twilight zone was life endurable, and
the city of Neg, stronghold of Freka the
Unknown, was the only urban grouping on
the planet.

Neg lay slillen in the eternal twilight
when at last Kieron’s spaceship landed
outside the gates and the debarkation of
his retinue had begun ; the spaceport, how-
ever, was ablaze with flares and torches,
and the lord of Kalgan had sent a corps of
drummers — signal honors — to greet the
visiting star-king. The hot, misty night air

THE REBEL

throbbed with the beat of the huge kettle-
drums, and weapons and jewelled harness
flashed in the yellow light of the flames.

At last the debarkation was complete,
and Kieron and his warriors were led
by a torch-bearing procession of soldiery
into the fortified city of Neg — along an-
cient cobbled streets — through small
crowded squares — and finally to the Cita-
del of Neg itself. The residence of Freka
the Unknown, Lord of Kalgan.

The people they passed were a silent,
sullen lot. Dull, brutish faces. The faces
of slaves and serfs held in bondage by fear
and force. These people, Kieron reflected,
would go mad in a carnival of destruction
if the heavy hand of their lord should
falter.

He turned his attention from the people
of Neg to the massive Citadel. It was a
powerful keep with high wall9 and tur-
reted outworks. It spoke of Kalgan’s
bloody history in every squat, functional
line. A history of endless rebellion and up-
rising, of coups and upheavals. Warrior
after warrior had set himself up as ruler
of this sullen world only to fall before
the assaults of his own vassals. It had
ever been the policy of the Imperial Gov-
ernment never to interfere with these
purely local affairs. It was felt that out of
the crucibles of domestic strife would arise
the best fighting men, and they, in turn,
could serve the Imperium. As long as
Kalgan produced its levy of fighting men
and spaceships, no one on Earth cared
about the local government. So Kalgan
wallowed in blood.

Out of the last nightmare had come
Freka. He had risen rapidly to power on
Kalgan — and stayed in power. Hated by
his people, he nevertheless ruled harshly,
for that was his way. Kieron had been told
that this warrior who had sprung out of
nowhere was different from other men.
The Imperial courtiers claimed that he
cared nothing for wine or women, and that
he loved only battle. It would take such a
man, thought Kieron studying the Citadel,
to take and hold a world like Kalgan. It
would take such a man to want it !

If Freka of Kalgan loved bloodshed, he
would be happy when this coming council
of star-kings ended, the Valkyr reflected
moodily. He knew himself how near to
rebellion he was, and the other lords of the

OF VALKYR 13

Outer Marches, the lords of Auriga,
Doom, Quintain, Helia — all were ready to
strike the Imperial crown from Toran's
foolish head.

K ieron was escorted with his

warriors to a luxurious suite within
the Citadel. Freka, he was informed, re-
gretted his inability to greet him personal-
ly, but intended to meet all the gathered
star-kings in the Great Hall within twelve
hours. Meanwhile, there would be enter-
tainment for the visiting warriors, and the
hospitality of Kalgan. Which hospitality,
claimed the hawk-faced steward pridefully,
was without peer in the known Universe!

An imp of perversity stirred in Kieron.
He found that he did not completely trust
Freka of Kalgan. There was a premedi-
tated cold-bloodedness about this whole
business of the star-kings’ grievance coun-
cil that alerted him to danger. There
should have been less smoothness and effi-
ciency in the way the visitors were handled,
Kieron thought illogically, remembering the
troubles he, himself, had gone to whenever
outworld rulers had visited Valkyr. He
was suddenly glad that he had warned
Nevitta to use extreme caution should it
be necessary to bring Alys to Kalgan. It
was possible he was being over-suspicious,
but he could not forget that Alys herself
had seen a warlock from Kalgan in fa-
miliar conversation with the woman really
to blame for the danger that smouldered
red among the worlds of the Empire.

The drums told the Valkyr that the
other star-kings were arriving. Torches
flared in the courtyards of the Citadel, and
the hissing roar of spaceships landing told
of the eagles gathering.

Through the long, featureless twilight,
the sounds continued. Freka made no ap-
pearances, but the promised entertainment
was forthcoming and lavish. Food and
wine in profusion veere brought to the
apartments of the Valkyrs. Musicians and
minstrels came too, to sing and play the
love songs and warchants of ancient Val-
kyr while the warriors roared approval.

Kieron sat on the high seat reserved for
him and watched the dancing yellow light
of the flambeaux light up the stone rooms
and play across the ruddy faces of his
warriors as they drank and gamed and
quarreled.

14 PLANET

Dancing girls were sent them, and the
Valkyrs howled with savage pleasure as the
naked bodies, glistening with scented oils,
gyrated in the barbaric rhythms of the
sword dances steel whirring in bright arcs
above the tawny heads. The long, gloomy
twilight passed unregretted in the warm,
flame-splashed closeness of the Citadel.
Kieron watched thoughtfully as more wo-
men and fiery vintages were brought into
the merrymaking. The finest wines and the
best women were passed hand to hand over
the heads of laughing warriors to Kieron’s
place, and he drank deeply of both. The
wines were heady, the full lips of the
sybaritic houris bittersweet, but Kieron
smiled inw’ardly — if Freka the Unknown
sought to bring him into the gathering of
the star-kings drunk and satiated and
amenable to suggestion, the lord of Kalgan
knew little of the capacity of the men of
the Edge.

The hours passed and revelry filled the
Citadel of Neg. Life on the outer worlds
was harsh, and the gathering warriors
took full measure of the pleasures placed
at their disposal by the lord of Kalgan.
The misty, eternal dusk rang with the
drinking songs and battle-cries, the quar-
reling and lovemaking of warriors from a
dozen outworld planets. Each star-king,
Kieron knew, was being entertained sep-
arately, plied with wine and woman-flesh
until the hour for the meeting came.

The sands had run their course in the
glass five times before the trumpets blared
through the Citadel, calling the lords to the
meeting. Kieron left his men to enjoy
themselves, and with an attendant in the
harness of Kalgan made his way toward
the Great Hall.

Through dark passageways that reeked
of ancient violence, by walls hung with
tapestries and antique weapons, they went ;
over flagstones worn smooth by gene-
rations. This keep had been old when the
reconquering heirs to the Thousand Em-
perors rode their chargers into the Great
Hall and dictated their peace terms to the
interregnal lords of Kalgan.

T HE HALL was a vast, vaulted stone
room filled with the smoky heat of
torches and many bodies. It teemed with
be-jewelled warriors, star-kings, warlords,
aides and attendants. For just a moment

STORIES

the lord of Valkyr regretted having come
into the impressive gathering alone. Yet
it was unimportant. These men were —
for the most part — his peers and friends;
the warrior kings of the Edge.

Odo of Helia was there, filling the
room with his great laughter ; and Theron,
the Lord of Auriga; Kleph of Quintain;
and others. Many others. Kieron saw the
white mane of his father’s friend Eric,
the Warlord of Doom, the great Red
Sun beyond the Horsehead Nebula. Here
was an aggregation of might to give even
a Galactic Emperor pause. The warlike
worlds of the Edge, gathered on Kalgan
to decide the issue of war against the
uneasy crown of Imperial Earth.

Questions coursed through Kieron’s
mind as he stood among the star-kings.
Alys — pleading with Toran — what success
could she have against the insidious power
of the Consort ? Was Alys in danger ? And
there was Geller, the mysterious warlock
of the Marshes. Kieron felt he must seek
out the man. There were questions that
only Geller could answer. Yet at the
thought of a warlock — a familiar of the
Great Destroyer — Kieron’s blood ran
cold.

The Valkyr looked about him. That
there was power enough here to crush the
forces of Earth, there was no doubt. But
what then? When Toran was stripped of
his power, who would wear the crown?
The Empire was a necessity — without it
the dark ages of the Interregnum would
fall again. For four generations the mantle
of shadows had hovered over the young-
ling Second Empire. Not even the most
savage wanted a return of the lost years
of isolation. The Empire must live. But
the Empire would need a titular head. If
not Toran, the foolish weak boy, then
who? Kieron’s suspicions stirred. . . .

A rumble of tympani announced the
entrance of the host. The murmuring
voices grew still. Freka the Unknown had
entered the Great Hall.

Kieron stared. The man was — mag-
nificent! The tall figure was muscled like
a statue from the Dawn Age; sinews
rippling under the golden hide like oiled
machinery, grace and power in every
movement. A mane of hair the color of
fire framed a face of classic purity — as-
cetic, almost inhuman in its perfection.

THE REBEL

The pale eyes that swept the assemblage
were like drops of molten silver. Hot, but
with a cold heat that seared with an icy
touch. Kieron shivered. This man was al-
ready half a god. . . .

Yet there was something in Freka that
stirred resentment in the Valkyr. Some
indefinable lack that was sensed rather
than seen. Kieron knew he looked upon a
magnificent star-king, but there was no
warmth in the man.

Kieron fought down the unreasonable
dislike. It was not his way to judge men
so emotionally. Perhaps, thought the Val-
kyr, I imagine the coldness. But it was
there !

Yet when Freka spoke, the feeling van-
ished, and Kieron felt himself transported
by the timbre and resonant power of the
voice.

“Star-kings of the Empire!" Freka
cried, and the sound of his words rolled
out over the gathering like a wave, gain-
ing power even as he continued: “For
more than a hundred years you and your
fathers have fought for the glory' and gain
of the Great Throne! Under Gilmer of
Kaidor you carried the gonfalon of Im-
perial Earth to the Edge and planted it
there under the light of Andromeda itself !
Your blood was shed and your treasure
spent for the new Emperors ! And what is
your reward? The heavy lumd of a fool!
Your people writhe under the burden of
excessive taxation — your women starve
and your children are sold into slavery!
You are in bondage to a foolish boy who
squats like a toad on the Great
Throne . .

K ieron listened breath-

lessly as Freka of Kalgan wove a
web of half-truths around the assembled
w'arriors. The compelling power of the
man was astounding.

“The worlds writhe in the grip of an
idiot ! Helia, Doom, Auriga, Valkyr, Quin-
tain . . ." He called the roll of the warrior
worlds. “Yes, and Kalgan, too! There is
not enough wealth in the Universe to
satiate Toran and the Great Throne! And
the Court laughs at our complaints! At
us! The star-kings who are the fists of the
Empire! How long will we endure it?
How long will we maintain Toran on a
throne that he is too weak to hold?”

OF VALKYR 15

Toran, thought Kieron grimly, always
Toran. Never a word of I vane or Landor
or the favorites who twisted Toran around
their fingers.

Freka’s voice dropped low and he leaned
out over the first row of upturned faces.
“I call upon you — as you love your people
and your freedom — to join with Kalgan
and rid the Empire of this weakling and
his money-grubbing and neglect!'*

In the crowd, someone stirred. All but
this one seemed hypnotized. It was old
Eric of Doom who stepped forward.

“You speak treason! You brought us
here to discuss grievances, and you preach
rebellion and treason, I say!" he shouted
angrily.

Freka turned cold eyes on the old war-
rior.

“If this is treason," he said ominously,
“it is the Emperor’s treason — not ours."

Eric of Doom seemed to wilt under the
icy gaze of those inhuman eyes. Kieron
watched him step back into the circle of
his followers, fear in his aging face. There
was a pow'er in Freka to quell almost any
insurrection here, thought the Valkyr un-
easily. He, himself, was bound by the
promise he had made to Alys, but it was
only that that kept him from casting in
his lot with the compelling lord of Kalgan.
Such a feeling was unreason itself, he
knew, and he fought against it, drawing
on his reserves of information to strength-
en his resolve to obstruct Freka if he
could. Yet it w'as easy to understand how
this strange man had sprung out of ob-
scurity and made himself master of Kal-
gan. Freka was a creature made for leader-
ship.

Kieron stood av r ay front the crow'd and
forced himself to speak. All his earlier
suspicions were growing like a suffocating
cloud within him. Someone was being
fooled and used, and it was not the lord of
Kalgan !

“You, Freka!” he cried, and the lords
turned to listen. “You shout of getting rid
of Toran — but what do you offer in his

place ?"

Frekas eyes were like steel now, glinting
dully in the light of the wall-torches.

“Not myself. Is that what you feared?"
The fine mouth curled scornfully. “I ask
no man to lay down liis life so that 7
may take for myself the Great Throne and

16 PLANET

the sable mantle of Emperor! I renounce
here and now any claim to the Imperial
Crown ! When the time is right, I will
make my wishes known.”

The crowd of star-kings murmured ap-
provingly. Freka had won them.

“A vote!” someone cried. “Those who
are with Freka and against ToranlA
vote !”

Swords leaped from scabbards and glit-
tered in the torchlight while the chamber
rang to a savage cheer. Here was war and
loot to satisfy the savage heart ! The sack
of Imperial Earth herself ! Even old Eric
of Doom’s sword was reluctantly raised.
Kieron alone remained silent, sword
sheathed.

Freka looked down at him coldly.

“Well, Valkyr? Do you ride with us?”

“I need more time to consider,” said
Kieron carefully.

Freka’s laughter was like a lash. “Time!
Time to worry about risking his skin!
Valkyr needs time!”

Kieron felt his quick anger surging. The
blood pounded in his temples, throbbing,
pulsing, goading him to fight. His hand
closed on the hilt of his sword and it
slipped half out of the sheath. But Kieron
caught himself. There was something sinis-
ter in this deliberate attempt to ruin him —
to brand him a coward before his peers. A
man faced two choices here, apparently;
follow Freka into rebellion, or be branded
craven. Kieron glared into the cold eyes
of the Kalgan lord. The temptation to
challenge him was strong — as strong as
Kieron’s whole background and training
in the harsh warrior-code of the Edge.
But he could not. Not yet. There were too
many irons in the fire to be watched. There
was Alys and her plea to Toran. There
was the plight of his people. He could
not risk the danger to himself of driving
a blade through Freka’s throat, no matter
how his blood boiled with rage.

He turned on his heel and strode from
the Great Hall, the laughter of Freka and
the star-kings ringing mockingly in his
ears.

IV

K ieron awoke in darkness.

Of the fire on the hearth, only embers
remained and the stone rooms were silent

STORIES

but for the sound of sleeping men. The
single Valkyr sentry was at his elbow,
whispering him into wakefulness. Kieron
threw back the fur coverlets and swung his
feet over the edge of the low couch.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Nevitta, sir.”

“Nevitta! Here?” Kieron sprang to his
feet, fully awake now. “Is there a woman
with him ?”

“A slave-girl, sir. They wait in the outer
chamber.”

Kieron reached for his harness and wea-
pons, threading his way through his sleep-
ing men. In the dimly lit antechamber, Ne-
vitta stood near the muffled figure of Alys.
Kieron went immediately to the girl, and
she threw back her hood, baring her
golden head to the torchlight. Her eyes
were bright with the pleasure of seeing
Kieron again, but there was anger'in them,
too. The lord of Valkyr knew at once that
she had not succeeded with Toran.

“What happened, Nevitta?”

“An attempt was made on the little, prin-
cess’ life, sir.”

What?” Kieron felt the blood drain
from his face.

“As I say, Kieron.” The old Valkyr’s
face was grim. “We had to fight our way
out of the Palace.”

“I never had a chance to speak to To-
ran,” the girl said sombrely. “It was all
that could be done to reach the spaceship.
Even the Janizaries tried to stop us. Two
of your men died for me, Kieron.”

“Who did this thing?” asked Kieron
ominously.

“The men who attacked the princess’
quarters,” said Nevitta deliberately, “wore
the harness of Kalgan.”

That hit Kieron like a physical blow . . .
hard. Kalgan! And you brought her here ?
You fool, Nevitta!”

The old Valkyr nodded agreement. “Yes,
Kieron. Fool is the proper word . . .”

“No!” Alys spoke up imperiously. “It
was my command that brought us here. I
insisted.”

“By the Seven Hells! Why?” demanded
Kieron. “Why here? You could have been
safe on Valkyr ! I know it was my order
to bring you here, but after what hap-
pened . . .”

“The princess would not hear of seeking
safety, Kieron,” said Nevitta. “When Kal-

THE REBEL OF VALKYR

gan proved its treachery by trying to
assassinate her, she could think only of
your danger here . . . unwarned. She
would risk her life to bring you this news,
Kieron.”

Kieron turned to face the girl. She
looked up at him, eyes bright, lips parted.

“What could make a princess risk her
life . . Kieron began numbly.

“Kieron . . The girl breathed his
name softly. “I was so afraid for you.”

The Valkyr reached slowly for the clasp
of her cloak and unfastened it. The heavy
mantle dropped unnoticed to the flagstones.
Alys stood, swaying slightly, parted lips
inviting. Kieron watched the throbbing
pulse in her white throat and felt his own
pounding. He took a step toward her, his
arms closing about her yielding supple-
ness. His mouth sought her lips.

Unnoticed, Nevitta slipped from the
antechamber and silently closed the door
after him . . .

K IERON STOOD before the arched
window, staring out into the eternal,
misty dusk of Kalgan, his heart heavy.
Behind him, Alys lay on the low
couch. Her bright hair lay in tumbled
profusion about her face as she watched
her lover at the window. Kieron turned to
look at her, feeling the impact of her warm
beauty. He began to pace the floor, wrack-
ing his brains for a lead to his next move
in the subtle war of treachery and intrigue
that had taken shape around him.

He had ordered his men ready for at-
tack, but for the moment there was little
need for that kind of vigilance. What was
needed was more information. Carefully,
he marshalled what few facts he had at his
disposal.

The connection between Freka and the
plotters in the Imperial City that he had
suspected was proved at last by the attempt
on Alys’ life by men of Kalgan. The star-
kings were being used to fight a battle not
their own. But whose? Freka’ s ... or
Ivane’s? No matter which, they were being
tricked into striking the Imperial Crown
from Toran’s head, and the gain to them
and their people would be — more oppres-
sion.

The treatment he, himself, had received
in the Imperial Court made sense now.

2 — Planet Stories— Fall

17

Landor sought to drive him into the arms
of Freka’s revolt. Only Alys had spared
him.

Now, the star-kings must be warned.
But by the code of the Edge, Kieron
must prove to them that he was not the
craven coward that Freka’s laughter had
branded him. And he needed proof . Proof
of the monstrous structure of treachery
and intrigue that had sprung up out of a
woman’s cupidity and an unknown star-
king’s cold inhumanity.

Kieron stared moodily down into the
damp courtyard beneath the open window.
In the early dawn it wa9 deserted. Then,
quite suddenly, there was activity in the
walled-in square. An officer of the Citadel
guard escorted a heavily cloaked figure
into the yard, and with every evidence of
great respect, withdrew. The solitary fi-
gure paced the wet cobbles nervously.

Who, wondered Kieron, would be
treated with such obvious obsequiousness
and yet left in a back courtyard to await
the summons of Freka of Kalgan? A sud-
den thought struck him. It could be only
someone who should not be seen by the
star-kings and their attendants that filled
the Citadel of Neg to overflowing.

Kieron studied the cloaked nobleman
with renewed interest. It seemed to him
that he had seen that mincing walk be-
fore . . .

' Landor !

Kieron flung open the door to the outer
chamber. His startled men gathered about
him. Alys was on her feet behind him.
He signalled for Nevitta and four men to
enter.

“Nevitta! Tear down that wall tapestry
and cut it into shreds . . . Alys, tie the
strips together and make a rope of it !
Make certain the knots are secure enough
to bear a man’s weight . . . That’s Landor
down there !”

Kicking off his spurred boots, Kieron
eased himself over the ledge of the win-
dow. The courtyard was thirty feet below,
but the ancient walls of the Citadel were
rough and full of the ornate projections of
Interregnal architecture. Kieron let himself
down, feeling the mist wet on his face.
Twice he almost lost his footing and
pitched to the courtyard floor. Alys stared
down at him from the window, white-
faced.

18 PLANET

He was ten feet from the bottom when
Landor looked up. Recognition was in-
stant. There was a moment of stunned
silence, and Kieron dropped the remaining
distance to land cat-like on his feet, btade
in hand.

“Kieron!” Landor’s face was grey.

T HE VALKYR ADVANCED pur-
posefully. “Yes, Landor! Kieron! I
wasn’t supposed to see you here, was I ?
And you don’t dare raise an outcry or
the others will see you, too ! That would
raise quite a smell in the Consort’s pretty
brew, wouldn’t it?”

Landor shrank back, away from the
gleaming blade in Kieron’s hand.

“Draw, Landor,” said Kieron softly.
“Draw now, or I’ll kill you where you
stand.”

In a panic, the First Lord of Space
drew his sword. He knew himself to be
no match for the Valkyr star-king, and at
the first touch of blades, he turned and fled
for the gate. He banged hard against the
heavy panels. The gate was locked. Kieron
followed him deliberately.

“Cry for help, Landor,” Kieron sug-
gested with a short, hard laugh. “The place
is full of fighting-men.”

Landor was wild-eyed. “Why do you
want to kill me, Kieron,” he cried hoarse-
ly ; “what liave I done to you . . . ?”

“You’ve taxed my people and insulted
me, and if that were not enough there
would still be your treachery with Freka —
tricking me and the others into rebellion so
that Ivane can seize the crown ! That’s
more than enough reason to kill you. Be-
sides . . .” Kieron smiled grimly, “I just
don’t like you, Landor. I’d enjoy spilling
some of your milky blood.”

“Kieron ! I swear, Kieron . . .”

“Save it, dancing master!” Kieron
touched Landor’s loosely held weapon with
his own. “Guard yourself !”

Landor uttered an animal cry of desper-
ation and lunged clumsily at the Valkyr.
Kieron’s sword made a glittering encircle-
ment and the First Lord’s weapon clattered
on the cobblestones twenty feet away.

Kieron’s eyes were cold as he advanced
on the now r thoroughly terrorized courtier.
“Kneel down, Landor. A lackey should
always die on his knees.”

The First Lord threw himself to the

STORIES

cobbles, his arms around the outworlder’s
knees. He was grey with fright and bab-
bling for mercy, his eyes tightly shut.
Kieron reversed his. sword and brought
the heavy hilt down sharply on Landor’s
head. The courtier sighed and pitched for-
ward. Kieron sheathed his weapon and
picked the unconscious man up like a sack
of meal. Time was short. The guards
would be returning to escort Landor to
Freka. Kieron picked up the courtier’s
fallen sword. There must be no sign of
struggle in the courtyard.

The Valkyr carried Landor over to
where Alys and Nevitta had lowered their
improvised rope. He trussed Landor up
like a butchered boar and called to them.
“Haul him up!”

Landor disappeared into the window and
the rope came down again. Kieron climbed
hand over hand after the vanished courtier.
Within seconds he stood among his war-
riors again, and the courtyard was empty.

C<T ANDOR!” Kieron splashed wine in
the unconscious man’s face. “Lan-
dor, wake up !”

The courtier stirred and opened his
eyes. Immediately they filmed with fear. A
hostile circle of faces looked down at him.
Kieron, his dark eyes flaming. Alys . . . the
great red face of Nevitta, framed by the
winged helmet . . . other savage looking
Valkyrs. It was to Landor a scene from
the legendary Seventh Hell of the Great
Destroyer.

“If you want to live, talk,” said Kieron.
“What are you doing here on Kalgan?
It must be a message of importance you
carry. Ivane would have sent someone else
if it weren’t.”

“I ... I carry no message, Kieron.”

Kieron nodded to Nevitta who drew his
dagger and placed it against Landor’s
throat.

“We have no time for lies, Landor,”
said Kieron.

To emphasize the point, Nevitta pressed
the blade tighter against the pulse in the
First Lord’s neck. Landor screamed.

“Don’t . . . !”

“Talk — or I’ll cut the gizzard out of
you !” Nevitta growled.

“All right ! All right ! But take tliat;
knife away ... !”

“Ivane sent you here.”

THE REBEL OF VALKYR

Landor nodded soundlessly.

“Why?’

“I . . . I . . . was to tell Freka that . . .
that his men failed to . . . to . .

“To kill me!” finished Alys angrily.
“What else?”

“I . . . was also to tell him that the rest
of the plan was . . . was . . . carried out
. . . successfully.”

“Damn you, don’t talk in riddles !” Kier-
on said. “What ‘plan’?”

“The . . . the Emperor is dead,” Lan-
dor blurted, eyes wild with terror. “But
not by my hand! I swear it! Not by my
hand!”

Alys choked back a cry of pain.

“Toran ! Poor . . . Toran . . .”

Kieron took the terrified courtier by
the throat and shook him.

“You filthy swine! Who did it? Who
killed the Emperor?”

“ Ivane !” gasped Landor. “The people do
not know he is dead and she awaits the
star-king’s invasion to proclaim herself
Empress ! ... In the gods’ name, Kieron,
don’t kill me! I speak the truth!”

“Freka helped plan this?” demanded
Kieron.

“He is Ivane’s man,” stammered Lan-
dor, “but I know nothing of him! Nothing,
Kieron ! The warlock Geller brought him to
Ivane five years ago . . . that is all I
know !”

Geller of the Marshes . . . again. Kieron
felt the awful dread seeping through his
anger. Somehow the connection between
Geller and Freka must be discovered.
Somehow . . . !

Kieron turned away from the terrified
Landor. The picture was shaping now.
Freka and Ivane. The star-kings’ rebel-
lion. Toran . . . murdered.

“Keep this hound under guard!” or-
dered Kieron.

Landor was led away, shaken and weak.

“Nevitta !”

“Sir?”

“You and the princess will go back to
the ship as you came. She must be taken
to safety at once. As soon as that pig is
missed, we’ll have visitors . . .”

“No, Kieron! I won’t go!” cried Alys.

“You must. If you are captured on
Kalgan now it will mean a carte blanche
for Ivane.”

“But then you must come!”

19

“I can’t. If I tried to leave here now,
Freka would detain me by force. I know
his plans.” He turned again to Nevitta.
“She goes with you, Nevitta. By force if
necessary.

“Return to Valkyr and gather the tribes.
We can do nothing without men at our
backs. One of the ships will remain here
with me and the men. We will try to get
clear after we are certain that — ” He
looked over at the slim girl, his eyes som-
bre — “that Her Majesty is safe.”

The Valkyr warriors in the room
straightened, a subtle change in their ex-
pression as they watched Alys. A gulf had
suddenly opened between this girl and
their chieftain. They felt it too. One by
one they dropped to their knees before her.
Alys made a protesting gesture, her eyes
bright with tears. She saw the chasm open-
ing, and fought it futilely. But when Kier-
on, too, went to his knees, she knew it
was so. In one fleeting moment, they had
changed from lover and beloved to sov-
ereign and vassal.

She forced back the tears and raised her
head proudly; as Galactic Empress, Heir-
ess to the Thousand Emperors, she ac-
cepted the homage of her fighting men.

“My lord of Valkyr,” she said in a low,
unsteady voice. “My love and affection for
you — and these warriors will never be for-
gotten. If we live . . .”

Kieron rose to his full height, naked
sword extended in his hands.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” he spoke the
words formally and slowly, regretting what
was gone. “The men of Valkyr are yours.
To the death.”

K ieron watched nevitta and

Alys vanish down the long, gloomy
hall outside the Valkyr chambers — to all
appearances a warrior chieftain and his
slave-girl ordered away by their master.
Even then, thought Kieron bleakly, there
was danger. He saw them pass one sentry,
two . . . three . . . They turned the cor-
ner and were gone, Kieron’s hopes and
fears riding with them.

Already, there were sounds of confusion
in the Citadel of Neg. Men were searching
for the vanished Landor. Searching quiet-
ly, reflected Kieron with grim satisfaction,
for the visiting star-kings must not know
that Freka the Unknown held familiar

20 PLANET

audience with the Imperial First Ford of
Space. Spur of the moment hunting parties
and entertainments were keeping the visi-
tors occupied while the Kalgan soldiery
searched.

Kieron weighed his chances of escape
and found them small indeed. They dared
not stir from their quarters in the Citadel
until the roar of Nevitta’s spaceship told
that the Empress was safely away. And
meanwhile, the search for Landor drew
nearer.

An hour passed, the sand in the glass
running with agonizing slowness. Once
Kieron thought he heard the beat of hooves
on the drawbridge of the Citadel, but he
could not l>e certain.

Two hours. Kieron paced the floor of
the Valkyr chambers, his twelve remaining
warriors armed, alert, watching him. Ner-
vously he fingered the hilt of his sword.

Another hour in tire grey, eternal twi-
light. Still no sound of a spaceship rising.
Kieron’s anxiety grew to gargantuan pro-
portions. The search for Landor came
closer steadily. Kieron could hear the
soldiers tramping the stone c®rridors and
causeways of the Citadel.

Suddenly there was a knock at the
barred door to the Valkyrs’ quarters.

“Open! In the name of the lord of
Kalgan !”

A Valkyr near the door replied languid-
ly. “Our master sleeps. Go away.’’

The knocking continued. “It is regretted
that we must disturb him, but a slave of
the household has escaped. We must search
for him.”

“Would you disturb the Warlord of
Valkyr’s repose for a slave, barbarians?”
demanded the warrior at the door in a hurt
tone of voice. “Go away.”

The officer in the hallway was begin-
ning to lose patience.

“Open, I say ! Or we’ll break in !”

“Do,” offered the Valkyr pleasantly. “I
have a sword that has been too long dry.”

How Landor must be sweating in that
back room, Kieron thought wryly, thinking
that the Valkyrs would rather kill him than
let his message reach Freka. But Landor’s
death would serve no useful purpose now.
Time ! Time was needed. Time enough to
let Nevitta get Alys out of danger!

Kieron stq^ped to the door, hoping that
some warriors of the Outer Marches might

STORIES

possibly be within earshot and catch the
implication of his words. “Kieron of Val-
kyr speaks!” he cried. “We have Landor
of Earth here ! Landor, the First Lord —
is that the slave you seek?”

But the only response was the sudden,
crash of a ram against the panels of the
wooden door. Kieron prepared to fight.
Still, no sound of a spaceship rising . . .

The door collapsed, and a flood of Kal-
gan warriors poured into the room, weapons
flashing.

Savagely, the Valkyrs closed with them,
and the air rang with the 'metallic clash
of steel. No mercy was asked and none
was given. Kieron cut a circle of death with
his long, outworld weapon, the fighting
blood of a hundred generations of warriors
singing in his ears. The savage chant of
the Edge rose above the confused sounds
of battle. A man screamed in agony as his
arm was severed by a blow from a Valkyr
blade, and he waved the stump desperately,
spattering the milling men with dark Wood.
A Valkyr warrior went down, locked in
a death-embrace with a Kalgan warrior,
driving his dagger into his enemy again
and again even as he died. Kieron crossed
swords with a guardsman, forcing him
backward until the Kalgan slipped on the
flagstones made slippery with blood and
went down with a sword-cut from throat
to groin.

The Valkyrs were cutting down their
opponents, but numbers were beginning to
tell. Two Valkyrs went down before fresh
onslaughts. Another, and another, and still
another. Kieron felt the burning touch of
a dagger wound. He looked down and saw'
that a thrust from someone in the melee
had slashed him to the bone. His side was
slick with blood and the white ribs showed
along the ten inch gash.

Now, Kieron stood back to back with
bis two remaining companions. The other
Valkyrs were down, lying still on the
bloody floor. Kieron caught a glimpse of
Freka’s tall figure behind his guardsman
and he lunged for him, suddenly blind with
fury. Two Kalgan guards engaged him
and he lost sight of Freka. A Valkyr went
down with a thrust in the belly. Kieron
took another wound in the arm. He could
not tell how badly hurt lie was, but faint-
ness from the loss of blood was telling
on him. It was getting hard to see clearly.

THE REBEL

Darkness seemed to be flickering like a
black flame just beyond his range of vi-
sion. He saw Freka again and tried to
reach him. Again he failed, blocked by a
Kalgan soldier. A thrown sword whistled
past him and imbedded itself in the last
Valkyr’s chest. The man sank to the
floor in silence, and Kieron fought alone.

He saw the blade of an officer descend-
ing, but he could not ward it off. And as
it fell, a great hissing roar sounded beyond
the open window. Kieron almost smiled.
Alys was safe . . .

He lifted his sword to parry the de-
scending stroke. Weakened, the best he
could do was deflect it slightly. The blade
caught him a glancing blow on the side of
the head and he staggered to his knees. He
tried to raise his weapon again . . . tried
to fight on . . . but he could not. Slowly,
reluctantly, he sank to the floor as dark-
ness welled up out of the bloody flag-
stones to engulf him . . .

V

K ieron stirred, the pulsing

ache in his side piercing the reddish
veil of unconsciousness. Under him, he
could feel wet stones that stank of death
and filth. He moved painfully, and the
throbbing agony grew worse, making him
teeter precariously between consciousness
and the dark.

He was stiff and cold. Hurt badly, too,
he thought vaguely. His wounds had not
been tended. Very carefully, he opened
his eyes. They told him what he had al-
ready known. He was in a dark cell, filthy
and damp. A sick chill shook him. Teeth
chattering, huddled on the stone floor,
Kieron sank again into unconsciousness.

When he awoke again, he was burning
with fever and a cold bowl of solidified,
greasy gruel lay beside him. His tongue
felt thick and swollen, but the sharp agony
of his wounded side had subsided to a dull
hurt. With a great effort, he dragged him-
self into a corner of the dungeon and
propped himself up facing the iron-bound
door.

His searching hands found that he had
been stripped of his harness and weapons.
He was naked, smeared with filth and dried
blood. As he moved he felt a renewed flow
of warmth flooding down from his tom

OF VALKYR 21

flank. The wound had reopened. Sweat
was streaking the caked blood on his cheek.
His mind wandered in a feverish delirium
— a nightmare dream in which the tall,
coldly arrogant figure of Freka seemed
to fill all space and all time. Kieron’s
over-bright eyes glittered with animal
hate ....

Somehow, he felt that the hated Kal-
gan was nearby. He tried to keep his eyes
open, but the lids seemed weighted. His
head sagged and the fever took him again
into the ebony darkness of some fantastic
intergalactic night where weird shapes
danced and whirled in hideous joyous-
ness . . .

The rattling of the door-lock woke him.
It might have been minutes later or days.
Kieron had no way of knowing. He felt
light-headed and giddy. He watched the
door open with fever-bright eyes. A jailer
carrying a flambeau entered and the light
blinded Kieron. He shielded his face
with his hand. There was a voice speak-
ing to him. A voice he knew . . . and
hated. With a shuddering effort, he took
a grip on his staggering mind, his hate
sustaining him now. Moving his hands
away from his face, he looked up — into
the icy eyes of Freka the Unknown.

“So you’re awake at last,” the Kalgan
said.

Kieron made no reply. Pie could feel the
fury burning deep inside him.

Freka held a jewelled dagger in his
hands, toying with it idly. Kieron watched
the shards of light leaping from the faceted
gems in the liquid torchlight. The slender
blade shimmered, blue and silvery in the
Kalgan’s hands.

“I have been told that the Lady Alvs
was with you — here on Kalgan. Is this
true?”

Alys . . . Kieron thought vaguely of her
for a moment, but somehow the picture
brought sadness. Pie put her out of his
mind and squinted up at Freka’s gemmed
dagger, unable to take his eyes from the
glittering weapon.

“Can you speak?” demanded Freka.
“Was Toran’s sister with you?”

Kieron watched the weapon, a feral
brilliance growing like a flame in his dark
eyes.

Freka shrugged. “Very well, Kieron.
It makes no difference. Does it interest

22 PLANET

you to know that the armies are gathering ?
Earth will be ours within four weeks.” His
voice was cold, unemotional. “You realize,
of course, that you cannot be allowed to
live.”

Kieron said nothing. Very carefully he
gathered his strength. The dagger . . . the
dagger . . . !

“I will not risk war with Valkyr by
killing you now. But you will be tried by a
council of star-kings on Earth when we
have done what we must do . . .”

Kieron stared hard at the slender wea-
pon, his hate pounding in his fevered mind.
He drew a deep, shuddering breath. Freka
spun the blade idly, setting the jewels
afire.

“We should have taken you the moment
Landor was missed,” mused the Kalgan.
“But ... it really doesn’t matter now . .

Kieron’s taut muscles uncoiled in a
snakelike, lashing movement. He hit Freka
below the knees with all his fevered
strength and the Kalgan went down with-
out a sound, the slim dagger clattering on
the slimy floor of the cell. The guard
leaped forward. Kieron’s searching hand
closed about the hilt of the dagger. With
a sound of pure animal rage in his throat
he drove it into Freka’s unprotected chest.
Twice again his hand rose and fell, and
then the guard caught him full in the
face with a hooted foot and the light of
the torch faded again into inky black-
ness . . .

I N THE DARKNESS, time lost its
meaning. Kieron woke a dozen times,
feeling the dull throbbing ache of his
wounds and then fading again into uncon-
sciousness. He ate — or was fed — enough
to keep him alive, but he had no memory
of it. He floated in a red-tinged sea of
black, unreal, frightening. He screamed or
sobbed as the phantasms of his sick dreams
dictated, but through it all ran a single
thread of elation. Freka, the hated one,
was dead. No horror of nightmare or de-
lirium could strip him of that one grip on
life. Freka was dead. He remembered
vaguely the feel of the dagger plunging
again and again into his tormentor’s breast.
Sometimes he even forgot why he had
hated Freka, but he clung to the knowledge
that he had killed him the way a drown-

STORIES

ing man clings to the last suffocating
breath.

Sounds filtered into Kieron’s dungeon.
Sounds that were familiar. The hissing
roar of spaceships. Then later the awful
susurration of mob sounds. Kieron lay
sprawled on the stones of his cell-floor,
not hearing, lost in the fantasmagoric
stupor of delirium. His wounds still un-
tended, only the magnificent body of a
warrior helped him cling to the thread of
life.

Other sounds came. The crash of rams
and the clatter of falling masonry. The
shrieks of men and women dying. The
ringing cacophony of weapons and the
curses of fighting men. Hours passed and
the din grew louder, closer, in the heart
of the Citadel of Neg itself. The torches
on the outer cellblocks guttered out and
were left untended. The sounds of fight-
ing rose to a wild pitch, interlaced with
the inhuman, animal sounds of a mob gone
mad.

At last Kieron stirred, some of the fa-
miliar sounds of battle striking buried
chords in his fevered mind. He listened to
the advancing clash of weapons until it
rang just beyond his dungeon door.

He dragged himself into his comer
again and crouched there, the feral light
in his eyes brilliant now. His hands itched
for killing. He flexed the fingers painfully
and waited.

The silence was sudden and as complete
as the hush of the tomb.

Kieron waited.

The door was flung wide, and men bear-
ing torches rushed into the cell. Kieron
lunged savagely for the first one, hands
seeking a throat.

“Kieron!” Nevitta threw himsdf back-
ward violently. Kieron clung to him, his
face a fevered mask of hate. “Kieron! It
is I . . . Nevitta !”

Kieron’s hands fell away from the old
warrior and he stood swaying, squinting
against the light of the torches. “Ne-
vitta . . . Nevitta?”

A wild laugh came from the prisoner’s
cracked lips. He looked about him, into
the strained faces of his own fighting men.

He took one step and pitched forward
into the amis of Nevitta, who carried him
like a child up into the light, tears streak-
ing his grizzled cheeks , , ,

THE REBEL

F OR THREE WEEKS Alys and Ne-
vitta nursed Kieron, sucking the poi-
son of his untended wounds with their
mouths and bathing him to break the fiery
grip of the fever. At last they won. Kieron
opened his eyes — and they were sane and
clear.

"How long?” Kieron asked faintly.

"We were gone from Kalgan twenty
days . . . you have lain here twenty-one,”
Alys said thankfully.

"Why did you come back here ?” Kieron
demanded bitterly. "You have lost an Em-
pire!”

"We came for you, Kieron,” Nevitta
said. "For our king.”

"But . . . Alys . . .” Kieron protested.
"I would not have the Great Throne,
Kieron,” said Alys, "if it meant leaving
you to rot in a cell!”

Kieron turned his face to the wall. Be-
cause of him, the star-kings fought I vane’s
battle. And by now they would have won.
The only thing that had been done was the
killing of the treacherous Freka. He held
Kalgan now, for the Valkyrs had returned
seeking their Warlord after Freka’ s plan
had stripped the planet of fighting men —
and the mobs had done the Valkyr’s work
for them. But two worlds were not an Em-
pire of stars. Alys had been cheated. Be-
cause of him.

No ! thought Kieron, by the Seven Hells,
no ! They could not be defeated so easily.
There were five thousand warriors with
him now. If need be, he would fight the
Imperium’s massed forces to win Alys’
rightful place on the throne of Gilmer of
Kaidor!

"Let me up,” Kieron demanded. "If we
hit them on Earth before they have a
chance to consolidate, there’s still a
chance !”

"There is no hurry, Kieron,” said Ne-
vitta holding him in the bed with a great
hand. "Freka and the star-kings have al-
ready . . .”

“Freka!” Kieron sat bolt upright.

"Why, yes . . .” murmured Nevitta in
perplexity. "Freka.”

"That’s impossible !”

"We have had information from the
Imperial City, Kieron. Freka is there,”
said Alys.

Kieron sank back on the pillows. Had he
dreamed killing the Kalgan? No! It wasn’t

OF VALKYR 23

possible! He had driven the blade into his
chest three times . . . driven it deep.

With an effort he rose from the bed.
"Order my charger, Nevitta!”

"But sir !”

"Quickly, Nevitta! There is no time!”
Nevitta saluted reluctantly and with-
drew.

"Help me with my harness, Alys,” or-
dered Kieron forgetful of majesty.
"Kieron, you can’t ride!”

"I have to ride, Alys. Listen to me. I
drove a dagger into Freka three times . . .
and he has not died ! One man can tell
us why, and we must know. That man is
Geller of the Marshes!”

N EG WAS A SHAMBLES. The ad-
vent of the Valkyrs had been a signal
for the brutish population to go mad. Mobs
had thronged the streets, smashing, killing
and looting. The few Kalgan warriors left
behind to guard the city had had to aid the
Valkyrs in restoring order. It seemed to
Kieron, as he rode along the now sullenly
silent streets, that Kalgan and Neg had
been deliberately abandoned as having
served a purpose. If Freka still lived, as
they said, then he was something unique
among men, and not meant for so unim-
portant a world as Kalgan.

Shops and houses had been gutted by
fire. Goods of all kinds were strewn about
the streets, and here and there a body —
twisted and dismembered — awaited the
harrassed burial detachments that roamed
the shattered megalopolis.

Kieron and Alys rode slowly toward the
marshy slums of the lower city, Nevitta
following them at a short distance. The
three war horses, creatures bred to war
and destruction, paced along easily, flaring
nostrils taking in the familiar smells of a
ruined city.

Along the street of the Black Flames
there was nothing left standing whole.
Every hovel, every tenement had been
gutted and looted by the mobs. Presently,
Kieron drew rein before a shuttered
shanty between two structures of fire-
blackened stone.

Nevitta rode up with a protest. "Why
do you seek this beloved of demons, Kier-
on?” he asked fearfully. "No good can
come of this !”

Kieron stared at the shanty, It stared

24 PLANET

back at him with veiled ghoulish eyes. The
writhing mists shrouded the grey street
in the eternal twilight of Kalgan. Kieron
felt his hands trembling on the reins. This
was the lair of the warlock.

The stench of the marshes was thick and
now the mists turned to soft rain. Kieron
dismounted.

“Wait for me here,” he ordered Nevitta
and Alys.

With pounding heart, he drew his sword
and started for the door that gaped like
the black mouth of a plague victim. Alys
touched his elbow, disregarding his instruc-
tions. Her eyes were bright with fear, but
she followed him closely. Secretly glad of
her companionship, Kieron breathed a
prayer to his Valkyr gods and stepped in-
side ....

The place was a wreck. Old books lay
everywhere, ripped and tattered. In a cor-
ner, someone had tried to make a bon-
fire of a pile of manuscripts and broken
furniture and had half succeeded.

“The mob has been here,” Alys said
succinctly.

Kieron led the way through the rubble
toward the door of a back room. Care-
fully, he pushed it ajar with the point
of his blade. It creaked menacingly, re-
vealing another chamber — one filled with
strange machines and twisted tubes of
glass. Great black boxes stood along one
wall, coils of bright wire running into the
jumbled mass of shattered machines that
dominated the center of the room. The air
of the cold, silent room had a strange and
unpleasant tang. The smell, thought the
Valkyr, of the Great Destroyer!

The tip of his sword touched one of the
bright copper coils springing from the row
of black boxes along the wall, and a tiny
blue spark leaped up the blade. Kieron
yanked his weapon away, his heart racing
wildly. A thin curl of smoke hung in die
air, and the steel of the blade was pitted.
Kieron fought down the urge to run in
terror.

“I'm afraid, Kieron!” whispered Alys,
clinging to him.

Kieron took her hand and moved cau-
tiously around the pile of broken ma-
chinery. He found Geller then, and tried
to stop Alys from seeing.

“The Great Destroyer he served failed
him,” Kieron said slowly.

STORIES

The warlock was dead. The mob, terri-
fied — and hating what they could not un-
derstand — had killed him cruelly. The star-
ing eyes mocked Kieron, the blackened
tongue lolled stupidly out of the dry lips.
Geller’s mystery, thought Kieron, was still
safe with him. . . .

On the way out, Kieron stopped and
picked up the remnants of a book of sigils.
It was incredibly old, for the characters
on the cover were those of the legendary
First Empire. With some difficulty he
made out the title.

“ ‘Perpetually Regenerating Warps and
their Application in Interstellar En-
gines’. . . .”

The words meant nothing to him. He
dropped the magic book and picked up
two others. This time his eyes widened.

“What is it, Kieron?” Alys asked fear-
fully.

“Long ago,” Kieron said thoughtfully,
“on Valkyr, it was said that the ancients
of the First Empire were familiar with
the secrets of the Great Destroyer . . .”

“That’s true. That is why the Inter-
regnum came, and the dark ages,” said
Alys.

“I wonder,” mused Kieron looking at
the books. “What was this Geller known
best for?”

Alys shuddered. “For his homunculi.”

“The ancients, it is said, knew many
things. Even how to make . . . artificial
servants. Robots, they were called.” He
handed her the book. “Can you read this
ancient script?”

Alys read aloud, her voice unsteady.

“ ‘ First Principles of Robotics.’ ”

“And this one?”

“ ‘Incubation and Gestation of An-
droids’. . . . /”

Kieron of Valkyr stood in the silent,
wrecked laboratory of the dead warlock
Geller, his medieval mind trying to break
free of the bondage of a millennium of
superstition and ignorance. He understood
now . , . many things.

VI

T IKE GREAT SILVER FISH

' leaping up into the bowl of night,
the ships of the Valkyr fleet rose from
Kalgan. Within the pulsing hulls five
thousand warriors rode, ready for battle.

THE REBEL OF VALKYR

Against the mighty forces of the assem-
bled star-kings, the army of Valkyr
counted for almost nothing; but the sav-
age fighting men of the Edge carried with
them their talisman — Alys Imperatrix, un-
crowned sovereign of the Galaxy, Heiress
to the Thousand Emperors — the daughter
of their beloved warrior-prince, Gilmer,
conqueror of Kaidor.

In the lead vessel, Nevitta dogged the
harried Navigators, urging greater speed.
Below decks, the war chargers snorted and
stomped the steel decks, sensing the ten-
sion of the coming clash in the close,
smoky air of the spaceships.

Kieron stood beside the forward port
with Alys, looking out into the strangely
distorted night of space. As speed in-
creased, the stars vanished and the night
that pressed against the flanks of the
hurtling ship grew grey and unsteady.
Still velocity climbed, and then beyond the
great curving glass screen there was
nothing. Not blackness, or emptiness. A
soul-chilling nothingness that twisted the
mind and refused to be accepted by hu-
man ey©9. Hyperspace.

Kieron drew the draperies closed and
the observation lounge of the huge ancient
liner grew dim and warm.

“What’s ahead, Kieron?” the girl asked
with a sigh. “More fighting and killing?”

The Valkyr shook his head. “Your Im-
perium, Your Majesty,” he said formally,
“a crown of stars that a thousand gen-
erations have gathered for you. That lies
ahead.”

“Oh, Kieron ! Can’t you forget the Em-
pire for the space of an hour?” Alys de-
manded angrily.

The Warlord of Valkyr looked at his
Empress in perplexity. There were times
when women were hard to fathom.

“Forget it, I say!” the girl cried, her
eyes suddenly flaming.

“If Your Majesty wishes, I’ll not speak
of it again,” said Kieron stiffly.

Alys took a step toward him. “There
was a time when you looked at me as a
woman. When you thought of me as a
woman! Am I so different now?”

Kieron studied her sfim body and sen-
suously patrician face. “There was a time
when I thought of you as a child, too.
Those times pass. You are now my Em-
press. I am your vassal. Command me.

25

I’ll fight for you. Die for you, if need be.
Anything. But by the Seven Hells, Alys,
don’t torture me with favors I can’t
claim!”

“So I must command, then?” She
stamped her foot angrily. “Very well, I
command you, Valkyr!”

“Lady, I’ll never be a Consort !”

The girl’s face flushed. “Did I ask it?

I know I can’t make a lapdog out of you,
Kieron.”

“Stop it, Alys,” Kieron muttered heavily. *
“Kieron,” she said softly, “I’ve loved
you since I was a child. I love you now.
Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Everything, Alys.”

“Then for the space of this voyage,
Kieron, forget the Empire. Forget every-
thing except that I love you. Take what
I offer you. There is no Empress here . .

T HE SILVER FLEET speared down
into the atmosphere of the mother
planet. Earth lay beneath them like a globe
of azure. The spaceships fanned out into
a wedge as they split the thin cold air
high above the sprawling megalopolis of
the Imperial City.

The capital lay ringed about with the
somnolent shapes of die star-kings’ great
armada. Somewhere down there, Kieron
knew, Freka waited. Freka the Unknown.
The unkillable? Kieron wondered. For
weapons he had his sword and a little
knowledge. He prayed it would be enough.

It had to be. Five thousand warriors could
not defeat the assembled might of the star-
kings.

Shunning the spaceport, Kieron led his
fleet to a landing on the grassy esplanade
that surrounded the city. As the hurried
debarkation of men and horses began, Kie-
ron could see a cavalry force massing be-
fore the gates to oppose them. He cursed
and urged his men to greater speed.
Horses reared and neighed ; weapons glint-
ed in the late afternoon sunlight.

Within the hour the debarkation was
complete, and Kieron sat armed and
mounted before the serried ranks of his
warriors. The afternoon was filled with
the flash of steel and the blazing glory
of gonfalons as he ordered his ranks for
battle ... a battle that he hoped with
all his heart to avoid.

Across the plain, the Valkyr could make

26 PLANET

out the pennon of Doom in the first rank
of the advancing defenders. Kieron or-
dered Nevitta to stay by the Empress in
the rear ranks and to escort her forward
with all ceremony if he called for her.

Alys rode a white charger and had clad
herself in the panoply of ‘a. Valkyr warrior
maid. Her hips were girded in a. harness
of linked steel plates, her long legs free
to ride astride. Over her chest and breasts
was laced a hauberk of chain mail that
shimmered in the slanting sunlight. On
her head a Valkyr’s winged helmet — and
from under it her golden hair fell in cas-
cades of light to her shoulders. A silver
cloak stood out behind her as she galloped
past the ranks of Valkyrs, and they cheered
her as she went. Kieron, watching her,
thought she resembled the ancient war-
goddess of his own world — imperious,
regal.

With a cry, Kieron ordered his riders
forward and the glittering ranks swept
forward across the esplanade like a tur-
bulent wave, spear-heads agleam, gona-
falons fluttering. He rode far ahead, seek-
ing a meeting with old Eric of Doom, his
father’s friend.

He signalled, and the two surging
masses of warriors slowed as the two
star-kings rode to a meeting between the
armies. Kieron raised an open right hand
in the sign of truce and old Eric did like-
wise. Their caparisoned chargers tossed
their heads angrily at being restrained and
eyed each other with white-rimmed eyes.

Kieron drew rein, facing the old star-
king.

“I greet you,” he said formally.

“Do you come in friendship, or in war?”
asked Eric.

“That will depend on the Empress,”
Kieron replied.

The lord of Doom smiled, and there
was scorn on his face. He was remember-
ing Kalgan and Kieron’s reluctance. “You
will be pleased to know, then, that the
Imperial Ivane bids you enter her city in
peace — so that you may do her homage
and throw yourself on her mercy for your
crimes against Kalgan.”

Kieron gave a short, steely laugh. So
Ivane had already learned of the Valkyr
sack of Kalgan. “I do not know any ‘Im-
perial Ivane,’ Eric,” he said coldly.
“When I spoke of the Empress, I meant

STORIES

the true Empress, Alys, the daughter of
your lord and mine, Gilmer of Kaidor.”
He signalled Alys and Nevitta forward.

The gonfalons of the Valkyr line dipped
in salute as Alys trotted through the ranks.
She drew rein, facing the amazed Eric.

“Noble lady!” he gasped. “We were
told you were dead!”

“And so I might have been, had Ivane
had her way!”

- The old star-king stammered in con-
fusion. There was more here than he could
understand. Only a week before, he and
the other star-kings had done homage to
Ivane and hailed her as their savior from
the oppressions of the Emperor Toran,
and the nearest living kin to the late Gil-
mer. And now . . . !

Eric frowned. “If we have been made
fools, Freka must answer for this!”

“And now,” asked Kieron grimly, “do
we enter the city in peace or do we cut
our way in?”

Eric signalled his men to swing in be-
side the ranked Valkyrs and the whole
mass of armed men moved through the
fading afternoon toward the gates of the
Imperial City.

I T WAS DUSK by the time the caval-
cade reached the walls of the Imperial
Palace. Kieron called a halt and ordered
his men to rest on their arms. Taking only
Nevitta and Alys with him, he joined Eric
of Doom in challenging the Janizaries of
the Palace Guard.

They were passed by the stolid Pleia-
denes without comment, for the lord of
Doom was known as a vassal of the Im-
perial Ivane. Faces set, the small party
strode up the wide curving stairway that
led into the Hall of the Great Throne. The
courtiers had been warned by the shouts
of the people in the streets that something
was happening, and they had already begun
to gather in the Throne Room.

He had come a long way, thought Kie-
ron, from the day when he had stood be-
fore the Throne begging an audience with
Toran. Now, everything hung on his one
chance to prove his case — and Alys’ — to
the assembled nobles.

Kieron noted with some concern that
the Palace Guards were gathering too.
They covered each exit to the chamber,
cutting off retreat.

THE REBEL OF VALKYR

By now, the Hall of the Great Throne
was jammed with courtiers and star-kings,
all tensely silent — waiting. Nor did they
wait long.

With a blast of trumpets and a rolling
of tympani, Ivane entered the Throne
Room. Some of the courtiers knelt, but
others stood in confusion, looking from
Alys to Ivane and back again.

Kieron studied Ivane coldly. She was,
he had to admit, a regal figure. A tall
woman with hair the color of jet. A face
that seemed chiseled out of marble. Dark,
predatory eyes and a figure like a Dawn
Age goddess. She stood before the Great
Throne of the Empire, mantled in the
sable robe of the Imperium — a robe as
black as space and spangled with diamonds
to resemble the stars of the Imperial Ga-
laxy. On her head rested the irridium
tiara of Tmperatrix.

Ivane swept the Hall with a haughty
stare that stung like a lash. When her
eyes found Alys standing beside Kieron,
they brightened, became feral.

“Guards !” she commanded. “Seize that
woman! She is the killer of the Emperor
Toran !”

A murmuring filled the chamber. The
Janizaries pressed forward. Kieron drew
bis sword and leaped to the dais beside
Ivane. She did not shrink back from him.

“Touch her, and Ivane dies !” shouted
Kieron, his point at Ivane’s naked breast.
The murmuring subsided and the Jani-
zaries pulled up short.

“Now, you are all going to listen to
me!” shouted Kieron from the dais. “This
woman under my blade is a murderess and
plotter, and I can prove it !”

Ivane’s face was strained and white.
jNot from fear of his sword, Kieron knew.

“In the Palace dungeons you will likely
find Landor . . Kieron continued. “Pie
will be there because he knew of Ivane’s
plottings and talked too much when he
had a dagger at his throat. He will con-
firm what I say!

“This woman plotted to usurp the Im-
perium as long as five years age! It may
have been longer . . .” He turned to Ivane.
“How long does it take to incubate an
android, Ivane? A year? Two? And then
to train him, school him so that every
move he makes is intended to further your
aims ? How long does all that take ?”

27

Ivane uttered a scream of terror now.
“Freka! Call Freka!”

Kieron dropped his sword point and
stepped away from Ivane as though she
were contaminated. There was little dan-
ger from her now — but there was still
another.

Freka appeared at the edge of the dais,
his tall form towering above the courtiers.
“You called for me, Imperial Ivane?”
Ivane stared at Kieron with hate-filled
eyes. “You have failed me! Kill him now!”

K IERON WHIRLED and caught Fre-
ka’s blade on his own. The courtiers
drew back, giving them room to fight. No
one made a move to interfere. It was
known that Valkyrs had sacked the city of
Neg, and according to the warrior code
the two warlords must be allowed to fight
to the death if they wished.

Kieron made no attack. Instead he re-
treated before the expressionless Freka.

“Did you know, Freka,” asked Kieron
softly, “that Geller of the Marshes is
dead? He was your father in a way, wasn’t
he ?”

Freka made no reply, and for a mo-
ment the only sound in the hushed cham-
ber was the ring of blades.

Suddenly Kieron lunged. His sword
pierced Freka from breast to !>ack. The
Valkyr stepped back and pulled his blade
clear. The crowd gasped, for Freka the
Unknown did not fall . . .

“Are you really unkillable?” breathed
Kieron. “I wonder!”

Again he lunged under the mechanical
guard of the Kalgan. Again his blade sank
deep. Freka backed away for a moment,
still alert and unwounded.

Kieron shouted derisively at the star-
kings: “Great warriors! Do you see? You
have followed the leadership of an an-
droid ! A homunculus spawned by the war-
lock Geller!”

A gasping roar went up in the chamber.
A sound of superstitious horror and grow-
ing anger.

Kieron parried a thrust and brought his
blade down on Freka’s sword arm. Hard.
A sword clattered to the flagstones — still
gripped by a slowly relaxing hand. There
was no blood. The android still moved in,
eyes expressionless, his one hand reaching
for his enemy. Kieron struck again. A

PLANET STORIES

28

clean cut opened from shoulder to belly,
slicing the artificial tendons and leaving
the android helpless but still erect. Kieron
raised and lowered his blade in glittering
arcs. Freka ... or the thing that had been
Freka . . . collapsed in a grotesque heap.
Still it moved. Kieron passed his point
again and again through the quivering mass
until at long last it was still. Somewhere
a woman fainted.

A thick silence fell over the assemblage.
All eyes turned to Ivane. She stood staring
at the remnants of the thing that had been
. . . almost ... a man. Her hand fluttered
at her throat.

Alys’ voice cut through the heavy still-
ness. “Arrest that woman for the mur-
der of my brother Toran !”

But the crowd of courtiers was thinking
of other things. Jaded and cynical, they
had seen with their own eyes that Ivane
was a familiar of the dreaded Great Des-
troyer. Someone cried : “Witch ! Burn
her!”

The mass of courtiers and warriors
swept forward, screaming for the kill. Kie-
ron leaped for the dais, his sword still
bared.

“I’ll kill the first one who sets foot on
the Great Throne!” he cried.

But Ivane had heard the crowd sounds.
The black mantle slipped from her shoul-
ders, and she stood stripped to the waist,
like a marble goddess — her eyes recap-
turing some of their icy hauteur. Then,
before she could be stopped, she had taken
a jewelled dagger and driven it deep into
her breast.

Kieron caught her as she fell, feeling
the warm blood staining his hands. He
eased her down on the foot of the Great

Throne and laid his ear to her breast.
There was no pulse. Ivane was dead.

B EFORE the assembled Court, the
Warlord of Valkyr knelt before his
Empress. The star-kings had gone, and the
Valkyrs were the last outworld warriors
remaining in the Imperial City. Now, they
too, would take their leave.

The Empress sat on the Great Throne,
mantled in sable. Somehow, the huge
throne and the vast vaulted chamber seem-
ed to make her look small and frail.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Kieron,
“have we your leave to go?”

Alys’ eyes were bright with tears. She
leaned forward so that none but Kieron
might hear. “Stay a while yet, Kieron.
At least let us say our goodbyes alone and
not . . .” She looked about the crowded
Throne Room, “. . . not here.”

Kieron shook his head mutely. Aloud,
he said again, “Have I Your Majesty’s
permission to return to Valkyr?”

“Kieron . . . !” w'hispered Alys.

“Please . . .”

He looked up at her once, pain in his
eyes, but he did not speak.

Alys knew then that the gulf had opened
between them again ; that this time, it was
for the rest of their lives. The tears came
and streaked her cheek as she lifted her
head and spoke for all the Court to hear.

“Permission is granted, My Lord of
Valkyr. You . . . you may return to Val-
kyr.” And then she whispered, “And my
love goes with you, Kieron !”

Kieron raised her jewelled hands to his
lips and kissed them. . . . Then he arose
and turned on his heel to stride swiftly
from the Great Hall.

A Short Story by

RAY

BRADBURY

They had opened it to find
ichal they most desired . . .

They wandered the dead and fragile cities, looking for the
legendary Blue Bottle — not knowing what it was, nor caring,
not really wanting to find it • . . ever ...

T HE SUNDIALS WERE TUM- granaries of silence, time stored and kept,

bled into white pebbles. The birds golden kernels of forgetfulness, pools and

of the air now flew in ancient skies fountains of quietude and memory,

of rock and sand, buried, their songs Mars was dead.

stopped. The rivers were currented with And then out of the large stillness,

dust which flooded across the land when from a great distance, on the stones of an

the wind bade it reenact an old tade of old highway, there was a tiny sound,

engulfment. The cities were deep laid with First, like an insect, and growing larger,

9 H “ _ ^ 1 '4-" t ,, ' \.”j

HH

u r fi

w ^

1

m

k hJ

V ft

A . ft 1^ f ' ’

w M ■ %^ft

30 PLANET

between the cinnamon hills, and finally
broadening, flattening out, the sound buz-
zing and humming, while something moved,
growing big.

The highway trembled. The rocks
ground one upon another briefly. The
sound grew into a thunder which shook
down avalanches of dust in the old cities.

The sound ceased.

Mr. Albert Steinbeck and Mr. Leonard
Craig sat in their rusted automobile,
in the warm silence of midday, sighing.
They looked at a city which did not move
but stood with one stone upon another
waiting for them to enter.

“Hello!” cried Mr. Steinbeck.

A tower dropped into soft dusting ruin.

“Hello!”

A second and a third tower crumbled
into whispers of dust.

“Hello!”

Steinbeck waited.

No more towers fell.

“It’s safe to go in now,” he said.

“To find the Blue Bottle?” said Mr.
Leonard Craig, not moving.

“Yes.”

“Why does everyone want it? What’s
in the Bottle?”

“I don’t know.” Steinbeck checked his
equipment.

“Who does know?”

“Nobody knows. Those that found it
never told.”

“Then why bother ?” said Craig, lying in
his corner of the car, a cigarette unlit on
his lower lip. His mouth barely moved.
His eyes were half shut and faintly ami-
used.

“Use a little sense,” said Steinbeck.
“It’s because it might contain anything
that evervone is looking for the Blue
Bottle.”

“ Everyone f”

Steinbeck nodded. “It’s old. Old as that
desert there, or the canals.”

“A Blue Bottle,” said Craig, sitting up
and looking around, as if trying to ex-
plain it to himself and the highway.
“Blown by some ancient Martians, and it’s
in one of these damned cities. Mind you,
I’m not criticising. I’ve got nothing to
do. If I wasn’t traveling with you, I’d
be sitting under a tree somewhere or swim-
ming in a canal. I’m just along for the
ride. Continue.”

STORiES

S TEINBECK LOOKED at the rusted
car. They had found it in an old ruin
somewhere, part of the flotsam of the first
Industrial Invasion of Mars that had died
when resources had petered out forty
years ago. He and Craig had worked on
the motor for six weeks and it ran, inter-
mittently, from dead city to city, through
the lands of the idlers and roustabouts,
the dreamers and the lazers, like himself and
Craig, men who had never wanted to do
anything and had found Mars a good place
to do it.

“Look at it this way, Craig,” said Stein-
beck ; “all of my life, I’ve done noth-
ing. Nothing big. Everyone else I went to
school with, they did something big, on
Earth, on Venus, somewhere in the Sys-
tem. Now it’s my turn.”

“You’re a tramp,” said Craig truth-
fully.

“Not when I get that Blue Bottle.”
“Let me figure.” Craig counted his fing-
ers. “Nine, no, ten years you’ve hunted
that damn thing. Long before I met you.
And now the last two years since I landed
on tins place, I’ve been tagging along,
watching you twitch nights. I see you by
the fire, asleep. You whine and shake.
You get nightmares. You sure must want
it bad, and since you don’t even know
what’s in that damn Bottle, that means you
don’t even know what you want from
life.”

“Look, Craig, we argue about this ev-
ery day.”

“And every day I keep telling you to
relax. You don’t need an excuse to be a
bum. You got this Blue Bcttle as an ex-
cuse maybe, a rationalization, for you nev-
er doing anything. All / ask is a drink,
some hot soup, a sandwich, plenty of sleep.
No work, if I can help it. And I don’t
need a blasted Bottle to excuse my lazy
carcass. All right, I’ll shut up. Come on,
we’ll get into the city.”

They walked on the stones of the aven-
ue, past fountains of littered bone.

“This building?” asked Craig.

“Just a moment,” said Steinbeck. He
cupped his mouth and shouted, “You
there !”

They ran back.

From the towers, in a shattering flight,
stone griff ens fell down. They banged the
street. They flew to pieces. His voice sum-

DEATH-WISH 31

moned them like live animals, and the
towers answered, groaned, cracked, the gar-
goyle’s tilted over, twisting, plummenting.
They fell one upon another, their faces
splintered, their teeth stinging in small
flints on Steinbeck’s chest. That was the
way of these cities. Sometimes towers as
beautiful as a symphony would fall at a
cough. It was like watching a Bach cantata
disintegrate before your eyes. A moment
later there was only a sweltering heap and
silence.

“If the Blue Bottle was in there,” said
Craig, “we’ll never know.”

“Shut up.”

They tested another building and en-
tered.

“You take that room. I’ll take this,”
said Steinbeck.

“In that bottle,” said Craig, “is it a
woman in there, a little accordian woman,
all compressed up, like one of those tin
cups you fold in on itself? or like one of
those Japanese flowers you put in cold
water and it opens out ?”

“I don’t give a damn for women.”
“That’s what you think. Maybe that’s it.
You never had a woman, so maybe, sub-
litninally, that’s what you hope is in it?”
Craig pursed his mouth. “Or maybe, in
that bottle, something about your child-
hood. That’s a thought. All put up in a bun-
dle, a lake, a telephone pole or a tree you
climbed, a root-beer you drank, a sliver
you got in your hand, green grass, a creek,
some crayfish, bow’s that sound?”

Steinbeck’s eyes focussed on a distant
point. “Yes. Sometimes, that’s almost it.
I don’t know.”

“What’s in the bottle would depend,
maybe, on who’s looking. Old men would
want a Youth Elixir in it. A scientist
might want a perpetual motion machine
in it. Biologists would expect to find the
perfect edible all-purpose food to sustain
life in any climate. What al>out you?”
“Some nights,” said Steinbeck, “I al-
most know. I dream about it. All I know
is I’ve got to find it.”

“Now, if there was a shot of bourbon
in it—”

“Get on, and look!”

T HERE WERE seven rooms on the
ground floor. They were filled with
glitter and shine. From floor to tiered ceil-

ing there were casks, scuttles, cribs, crocks,
magnums, pails, stoups, tubs, urns, vases
and cruets. These were fashioned of red,
pink, yellow, violet and black glass.

Steinbeck broke them, one by one, to
eliminate them, to get them out of the
way, so he would never have to go through
them again, searching for the hidden treas-
ure. The empty house sounded with con-
tinually breaking glass.

Steinbeck finished his room. He stood
ready to invade the next. He was afraid to
go on. Afraid that this time he would find
it, the search would be over and meaning
would go out of his life. It had been with
him a long time, this fear that some day
he would find the Bottle. And what would
be left of his life then ? Only after he had
heard of the Bottle of Blue Glass from
fire-travelers all the way from Venus to
Jupiter, ten years ago, had life begun to
take on a purpose. The fever had lit him
and he had burned steadily ever since. If
he worked it properly, the prospect of
finding the Bottle might fill his entire life
to the brim. Another thirty years, if he
was careful, and not too diligent, of search-
ing, never admitting aloud that it wasn’t
the Bottle tliat counted at all, but the
search, the running and the hunting, the
dust and the cities and the going-on. Then
he could die, his life full of activity, as
senseless as a clock set to sound out its
twelve strokes at some future date, and
then lie still.

What if he knew the Bottle to lie in
the next room at this instant?

He would turn and walk out and not
come back for many years. He knew that
as certainly as he knew the forests of grey
web and thickets of spiders waiting in the
long hall.

He heard a sound. He turned and
walked to a window looking out into the
courtyard. A small grey, streamlined mo-
torcycle had purred up almost noiselessly,
at the end of the street. A fat man with
blond hair eased himself oft the spring
seat and stood looking at the towers. An-
other searcher. A rich one, this time. Stein-
beck sighed. Thousands of them, search-
ing and searching. But there were thous-
ands of brittle cities and towns and vil-
lages and it would take a miUenium to
search diem all.

“How you doing?” Craig appeared in a

PLANET STORIES

32

doorway.

“Get back to your own room and
search.”

“I searched. Nothing.”

Steinbeck sniffed. “Do you smell any-
thing?”

“What?” Craig looked about.

“Smells like — bourbon,” said Steinbeck.

“Ho!” Craig laughed. “That’s me\”

“You?”

“I just took a drink. Found some in the
other room.”

Steinbeck moved aside some red bottles
and peered into a corner.

“Sure,” said Craig. “I shoved some
stuff around and I found a mess of bottles,
like always, and one of them had some
bourbon in it, so I drank it.”

Steinbeck turned and stared.

“Say that again.”

“So I drank it,” said Craig.

“What would bourbon be doing in a
Martian bottle?” asked Steinbeck. His
hands were cold. He didn’t move, but he
knew that he was trembling. He took a
slow step. “What color was the bottle?”

“I didn’t notice, it was just a bottle — ”
Craig swallowed and turned pale. “Oh
God !” he said. He put his hand to his
throat and then to his mouth. “It was
blue.” And Craig was running.

S TEINBECK WANTED to yell, “No,
don’t ! I’m leaving.” He tried to walk
out, to get away. But Craig was back now,
and there was a bottle, as blue as the sky,
the size of a small fruit, light and airy in
his hands as he set it down upon a table.

“Here it is, it doesn’t look very inter-
esting to me,” said Craig. “It can’t be the
right one. After all, it’s just a bottle, a
bottle with some bourbon in it, and very
refreshing.” He smiled.

Steinbeck stood looking at it.

“I don’t see anything inside,” he said.
“You’re insane,” said Craig. “Go on,
shake it.”

Steinbeck picked it tip, gingerly. He
shook it.

“Hear the liquor gurgle inside?” said
Craig.

“No.”

“/ can hear it. Just as plain.”

“There’s nothing in it, I tell you.”

“You don’t see anything?”

“No.”

They set it on the table again and said
nothing. Sunlight falling through a side
window struck blue flashes off the tall,
slender container. It was the blue of a
star held in the hand. It was the blue of
a shallow ocean bay at noon. It was the
blue of a diamond at morning.

“This is it” said Steinbeck. “I know it
is. We don’t have to look any more. We’ve
found it.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Craig,
slowly. “If I see bourbon and you see
nothing, it must be the Bottle. Are you
sure you don’t see anything?”

Steinbeck bent close and peered deeply
into the blue universe of glass. “There’s
something faint there. I can almost see it,
but not quite. Maybe if I open it up and
let it out, what ever it is, I’ll know.”

“I put the stopper in tight. Here.” Craig
reached out.

“If you will excuse me,” said a voice
in the door behind them. Steinbeck and
Craig did not move.

The plump gentleman with blond hair
walked around into their line of vision
with a gun. He did not look at their
faces, he looked only at the blue glass bot-
tle they held in their hands. He began to
smile. “I hate very much to handle guns,”
he said, “but it is a matter of necessity
now. I simply must have that work of
art, and this need of mine overcomes any
squeamishness I might have toward fire-
arms. Now, the longer you refrain from
giving me the Bottle, the more nervous I
am inclined to become. My finger might
easily cause an accident. To avoid any
such unfortunate thing, I suggest that you
let me take it and go.”

Steinbeck was almost pleased. It had a
certain beauty of timing, this incident, it
was the sort of thing he might have wished
for, to have the treasure stolen before
it was opened. It was only Craig’s pres-
ence that had forced him to go ahead with
opening the Bottle anyway, and now —
there was the good prospect of a chase,
a fight, a series of gains and losses, and,
before they were done, perhaps another
four or five years spent upon a new
search.

“Come along now,” said the stranger.
“Give it* up. There’s nothing in it for
you, a lot for me.” He shook the gun
warningly.

DEATH-WISH 33

Steinbeck handed it over.

“Thank you and goodbye,” said the
plump man, then hesitated. “But first,
your guns. I’m afraid HI have to take them
along with me, in case you should think
of following.” The guns were relinquished.
“This is really amazing,” said the plump
man. “I can’t believe it was as simple as
this, to walk in, to hear two men talking,
and to have the Bottle simply handed to
me.”

He wandered off dowm the hall, out into
the daylight, talking to himself.

I T WAS MIDNIGHT. The cities of
Mars were bone and idle dust. Along
the scattered highway the rusted car
bumped and rattled, past cities where the
tapestries, the meters, the gyrostats, the
furniture, the paintings lay powdered over
with mortar and insect wings. Past cities
that were cities no longer, but only things
rubbed to a fine silt that flow ? ed sense-
lessly back and forth on the winds be-
tween one land and another, like the sand
in a gigantic hour-glass, endless pyramid-
ing and re-pyramiding. Silence opened up
to let the car pass, and closed swiftly in
behind.

Craig said, “We’ll never find him. These
damned roads. So old. Pot-holes, lumps,
everything wrong. He’s got the advantage
on a motorcycle, you can dodge and w r eave.
Damn it!”

They swerved to avoid a crevasse.
“You watch the sides of the road,” said
Steinbeck. “He could hide until we passed
and then go the opposite direction.”
“Maybe he had a rocket parked some-
where and went up in it.”

“Wait a minute!” Steinbeck throttled
the car down. He slowed and turned about.
“I saw something back there.”

“Where?”

They drove back a hundred yar ds.
“There, you see?”

In the ditch, by the side of the road,
they saw a large mass.

The plump man lay folded over his mo-
torcycle. 'He did not move. His eyes were
wide and when Steinbeck flashed his torch
down, the eyes burned dully.

Steinbeck jumped down into the ditch
and retrieved a gun from under the plump
man’s heaviness.

3— Planet Stories— Fall

“Where’s the Bottle?”

“I don’t know’.” Steinbeck cursed.

“What killed him?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“The motorcycle looks okay. Not an
accident. Looks as if he just let himself
down here on his motorcycle and died.”
Steinbeck rolled the body over. “No
wounds. He stopped of his own accord.”
“Heart attack. He had to stop. He got
down off the highway to hide in case we
came by. Thought he’d be all right. But
the heart attack didn’t go away. Killed
him.” He touched the body. “Cold. He’s
been dead at least five hours.”

“That doesn’t account for the Blue Bot-
tle.”

“Someone happened along. Lord, you
know' how many prospectors there are, on
horseback, on foot, any old way.”

They both scanned the desert around
them. Far off in the starred blackness, on
the cinnamon hills, they saw a dim move-
ment.

“There!” Craig pointed.

“Looks like three men, on horseback.”
“You going after them?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Craig opened his mouth to say some-
thing, but it was never said.

B ELOW THEM, in the ditch, as they
watched, the figure of the plump
man glowed and began to melt. The eyes
took on the aspect of moonstones under a
sudden rush of water. The face began to
dissolve away into fire. The hair resem-
bled small firecracker strings, lit and sput-
tering. At any moment, he might explode,
shatter apart, so many fragments of crys-
tal and glass and molten lava. The body
fumed. The fingers jerked with flame.
Then, as if a gigantic hammer had struck
a glass statue, the body cracked upw’ard
and was gone into a million shards, be-
coming mist as the breeze carried it across
the highway.

“Good Lord,” said Craig. “They must
have done something to him, those three
men, with a new kind of gun.”

“It wasn’t a gun,” said Steinbeck.
“What was it, then ?”

“I don’t know*. But I’ll find out.”

“Are you going to follow them?”

“Yes, I’ve decided. This decided me.”
He pointed to where the body had been.

34 PLANET

“It’s happened before, this way. Men I
knew who had the Blue Bottle. They
vanished. And the Bottle passed on to
others, who vanished. This is the first
time I was present when it happened. It
looked like a million fireflies, when he
broke apart, did you notice?”

“I noticed.”

“We’d better start.”

“In the car?”

“Yes.”

“But three against two, and we have
only one gun — ”

“Stay here then.” Steinbeck went back
to the car. He judged the desert mounds,
the hills of bone-silt and cinnamon. “It’ll
be a hard job, but I think I can poke the
car through after them. I have to, now. I
think I know what’s in the Blue Bottle, and
for the first time in my life I want to
have it. Always before, it was the running
after it that counted. I never really wanted
to find it, because I knew that what ever
was in it couldn’t possibly be as big as my
dreams of what it should be. And now,
suddenly, I realize that what I want most
of all is in the Bottle. Now. Waiting for
me.”

“Maybe you’ll think I’m a coward,”
said Craig, coming up to the car where
Steinbeck sat in the dark, his hands on his
knees. “But I’m not 'going with you . . .
because the Bottle means nothing to me in
any way. I won’t die for it. You’re asking
to be shot by those goons out there who’ re
running off with it. That’s your business.
I’ll follow you up, on foot. Then, if they
should capture you, -maybe I can ’figure a
way of helping you. I just want to live,
Steinie. Maybe I’m different than you.
You seem to want something awful bad,
something even you don’t know what. Me ?
I don’t want anything but to kick around
and drink and smell the air and sit down
and think once in awhile. So you go on
ahead and I’ll walk. I just don’t want to
die right now. I like to walk at night, any-
way, just looking around. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Steinbeck, a n d drove
away into the dunes.

T HE NIGHT was as clear as the water
in a long river. It was as cool as
water coming over the glass hood of the
car. He drove the car over dead river
washes and stones and spills of pebble,

STORIES

his hands fastened to the wheel as if all of
destiny were in it.

'He bent forward and gave the car full
throttle. In the rushing roar, for a moment,
there was time to cast his mind back, to all
the nights in the last ten years, nights
when he had built red fires on the sea
bottoms, and cooked slow, thoughtful meals
to spoon into his hungry mouth. And ly-
ing down and dreaming of his wants and
desires. Always those dreams of wanting
something. Not knowing what. Ever since
lie was a young man, die hard life on
Earth, the great Panic of 2130, the slow
starvation, and then the bucking through
the planets, the wonianless, loveless years,
the alone years. You came out of the dark
into the light, out of the womb into the
world, and what did you find that you
really wanted? Nothing. Nothing could
touch you or change you. Out of the
dark and comfortable womb into chaos,
riot, want, torture. And wasn’t it the same
for all men? Were the rich men any bet-
ter? What about that plump man back
there on the highway, dead? Wasn’t he
always looking for something extra ? Some-
thing that he didn’t have? Peace? Or
what ?

So what was diere for men like him-
self ? Or for anyone? Wjas there anything
at all to look forward to?

The Blue Bottle.

He braked the car to a halt. He leaped
out, the gun ready. He ran in the dunes.
Ahead of him, three horses reared up in
terror. He fired a shot. He aimed but
there was nothing to aim at. Empty-sad-
dled, the horses screamed and pelted off,
throwing up great showers of sand. Their
hooves pounded past a dead city and the
bony towers fell, stone upon stone, at the
echoes.

Steinbeck ran hunched over. He cocked
his gun. Then he returned it to his holster.

The three men lay on the cold sand,
neatly. They were Earthmen, with tan
faces and rough clothes and gnarled hands.
Starlight shone on the Blue Bottle which
lay among them.

Far away, the horses screamed faintly
and plunged on.

Steinbeck watched the bodies.

And as he watched, the bodies began
to melt. They vanished away into rises of
steam, into dewdrops and crystals. In a

DEATH-WISH 35

moment they were gone.

Steinbeck felt the coldness in his body as
the flakes rained across his eyes, flicking
his lips and his cheeks.

He did not move.

The plump man. Dead and vanishing.
Craig’s voice, “Some new gun ...”

No. Not a new gun at all.

The Blue Bottle.

They had opened it to find what they
most desired. All of the desiring men
down the long and lonely years had
opened it to find what they most wanted
in all of the planets of the universe. And
all had found it, even as had these three.
Now it could be understood, why the
Bottle passed on so swiftly, from one to
another, and the men vanishing behind it.
Harvest chaff fluttering on the sand,
among the dry river beds. Turning to
flame and fireflies. To mist.

S TEINBECK PICKED UP the bottle
and held it away from himself for a
long moment. His eyes shone clearly. His
liands trembled.

So this is what I’ve been looking for? he
thought. He turned the Bottle so it flashed
blue starlight.

So this is what all men really want? the
secret desire, deep inside, hid all away
where we never guess ? The subliminal
urge. So this is what each man seeks,
through some private guilt, to find?
Death.

An end to doubt, to torture, to monot-
ony, to want, to loneliness, to fear, an
end to everything.

All men?

No. Not Craig. Craig was, perhaps, far
luckier. A few men were like animals in
the universe, not questioning, drinking at
pools and breeding and raising their young
and not doubting for a moment that life
was anything but good. That was Craig.
There were a handful like him. Happy ani-
mals on a great reservation, in the hand
of God, Craig and the men like him. With
a religion and a faith that grew like a set
of special nerves in them. The un-neurotic
men in the midst of the billionfold neurot-
ics. They would only want death, later, in
a natural manner. Not now. Later.

Steinbeck raised the Bottle to his face.
! How simple, he thought, and how right.
This is what I’ve always wanted. Nothing

else. It was always in my mind but I
never took it out into the light. I couldn’t
admit it.

The Bottle was empty and blue in the
starlight. He took an immense draught of
the air coming from the Bottle, deep into
his lungs.

“I have it at last,” he thought.

He relaxed. He felt his body become
wonderfully cool and then wonderfully
warm. He knew that he was dropping
down a long slide of stars into a darkness
as delightful as wine. He was swimming
in blue wine and lavendar wine and red
wine. There were candles in his chest, and
firewheels spinning. He felt his hands leave
him. He felt his legs fly away, amusingly.
He laughed. He shut his eyes and laughed.

He was very happy for the first time in
his life.

The Blue Bottle dropped onto the white
sand.

A T DAWN, Craig walked along, whist-
ling. He saw the Blue Bottle lying
in the first pink light of the sun on the
empty white sands. As he picked it up,
there was a fiery whisper of air. A number
of orange and red and purple fireflies
blinked on the air, and passed on away.
This place was very still.

“Here’s the Bottle,” said Craig. “I’ll
be damned.” He glanced toward the dead
windows of the city. ‘'Hey, Steinbeck !” A
tower collapsed into powder. “Steinbeck,
here’s your damn bottle! I don’t want it.
Come and get it!”

“Come and get it,” said an echo, and
the last tower fell.

Craig waited.

“That’s rich,” he said. “The Bottle right
here and Steinbeck not even around to
take advantage of it.” He opened the Bot-
tle and peered inside. “Yes, sir, just the
way it was before. Full of bourbon, by
hell ! That’s more like it.” He drank and
wiped his wet mouth. “Ah ! Have another ?
Don’t mind if I do.”

He held the Bottle carelessly.

“All that trouble for a little bourbon. I’ll
just wait right here for Steinbeck and give
him his old bottle. Meanwhile ...”

The only sound in the dead land was the
sound of liquid running into a parched
throat. The Blue Bottle flashed in the sun.
Craig smiled happily and drank again.

the CROWDED COLONY

Oh, how decadent these Martians were! Bnrke, Barnes and the
rest of the Conqnerors laughed loudly at the dusty shrines,
those crude and homely tern ides in the desert. More softly
laughed the Martians, who dreamed of laughing last . • •

W HEN THE MARTIANS HAD

built the village of Kinkaaka there
had been water in the canal, a
cool, level sweep of green water from the
northern icecap. Now there was none, and
Kinkaaka clung to the upper swell of the
bank and curved its staggered residential
terraces like tragic brows over the long
slope of sand and clay, the dead wall
baked criss-cross by the sun, that bore at
its deep juncture with the opposite bank
the pitiful, straggling trench cut by Mars’
last moving waters an untold time ago.

Kinkaaka’s other side, away from the
canal, was coated rust-red by the desert
winds that came with sunset. Here were
the crumbling market arenas of the ancient
traders, the great mounds of underground
warehouses long empty; and here now,
with Mars’ conquest, was the “native”
section into whose sandstone huts the vil-
lage’s few inhabitants were shoved firmly,
but not brutally, to rest when they weren’t
needed to work.

Like most of the Conquerors, Jack
Burke and his companions preferred the
canal side of Kinkaaka. There they could
sit in the stone-cool shade of the Expedi-
tion Restaurant and look through the
broad glassless windows down the sun-
scalded canal bank, across to the opposite
slope with its dotting of nomad caves, the
desert beyond and the red-tainted blue of
the sky.

“Happy day we came to Mars,” said
Jack Burke. He picked up his stone mug
and drank with a shudder.

He was big and brown, typical of the
Conquerors, and spoke, as they all did
36

when within earshot of natives, the Mar-
tian dialect which the Linguistics Squad
had translated and reasoned to completion
from the pages of script found in the
metal cairn, half -buried in desert sands
and upon which they had conveniently al-
most landed their space-cube upon arrival
two days ago.

That was one of the dicta of the Psy-
chologists : Always speak the native tongue,
and learn it preferably from graphics or a
specimen before contacting the native col-
lective.

There were other policies as strange,
or more so; but the Psychologists, off-
world in the home-ship and poring over
the translations beamed to them, must
know what they were doing.

Barnes looked up in quick response to
Burke’s sarcasm. Of the three Conquerors
at this table, he was the smallest. He
fiddled nervously with his one-pronged
fork, turning a piece of badly cooked
huj over and over, not looking at it.

“That,” he said, and he included the
huj , “is a mouthful. There doesn’t seem to
be a Martian in this village who can cook
worth a damn, and you — ” this to the
pasty faced Martian who stood attentively
by — “are no exception. You’re getting off
easy with this job, Martian. Or would you
rather go back to digging up history with
the rest of your tribe?”

“I am sorry.” The Martian advanced
and bobbed his head. “The preparation of
your foodstuffs is difficult for me to com-
prehend. Would you care to try something
else, perhaps?”

Barnes skidded the fork onto the plate

38 PLANET

and put his hands flat on the stone table.
“No. Just take this away.”

The Conquerors watched the creature as
it moved silently off with the plate of huj.
All except Randolph, the youngest of the
trio.

H E SAT nearest the stone-silled win-
dow, his gaze reaching out distantly
over the sandscape. On the* far l>ank of
the canal he could see a few natives with
their guards,, emerging from a wood and
stone structure that thrust finger-shaped
into the pink sky.

“No race should have its soul dissected,”
he said slowly. “Not, at least, until they’re
extinct and can’t feel it.” He avoided
Barnes’ sudden, sharp look. “Our Archae-
ologists over there — ” pointing at the
moving dots — “are poking around in burial
crypts or sacred temples or whatever — it’s
like cutting someone up alive. We don’t
know what those things mean to these
Martians.”

Barnes laughed, more of a snort. “You
speak as if ‘these Martians’ were people.”
He leaned forward and blinked his em-
phasis. “What in hell ever happened to
you that you’ve got such ideas? Primitive,
misshapen morons — you can’t think of
them as persons! Don’t let an Intelligence
Officer hear you talking that way or you’ll
find yourself getting shipped home!”
Randolph’s eyes flicked Barnes’ heavy
face, then turned to the mural on the
restaurant wall.

“This is very beautiful,” he said. He
bent closer, examining the delicate work.
“This isn’t moronic. You’re wrong,
Barnes.”

Burke spoke harshly: “You’d better shut
up, Randolph. You’re sitting there emot-
ing over decadent art and there’s an In-
telligence Officer at the bar.”

Young Randolph stiffened and forced
a smile. “Of course, the Martians are a
degenerated race. Our Archaeologists have
revealed that Mars was spiritually effem-
inized thousands of years ago. Our colon-
ization will have a reforming effect upon
them. It is a healthy thing. That is our
mission in time and space.”

The Martian had returned and was
again standing at service. Randolph caught
his eye and flushed, returned his gaze to
the mural.

STORIES

Burke cleared his. throat. The Intelli-
gence Officer at the bar was still looking
icily at Randolph’s back, twiddling his
drink with a wooden mixer.

“You cannot doubt,” Barnes took up the
fraying thread, “that our conquest of these
Martians is a very good thing. For them.
I ... for us, too . . . That is our mission
in time and space. The first desert shrine
— the metal one from which we learned this
tongue we speak — is ugly enough proof.
Sheaves of manuscript, recording the most
disgusting standards and attitudes. And
the contents of subsequently found struc-
tures — like that one across the canal — show
an even greater decline into sensualism and
the subjugation of creative energies.”

The Martian stood quietly, his small-
featured face blank and smooth. He was
meant to hear all this.

“I heard one of our Archaeologists say
something about the language of that first
shrine — the metal one — being different
from all the others.” Randolph shifted his
great bulk to lean back against the wall.
“The others are mostly alike, but this one
we learned is totally different.”

The Martian’s eyes flickered.

“So what?” Barnes grunted. “Dialects.
Same thing at home.”

“But, I mean they — ”

“But what? These Martians here speak
the language we learned, don’t. they?”
“But—”

“Hell ! Do you speak AJirian?”

“You know I don’t.”

“So when we get through investigating
here and move on to other villages, we’ll
find Martians who speak the other dia-
lects.”

The Martian said: “Will there be any-
thing else, sirs ?”

“Not,” said Barnes, “unless you would
like to try some noedan”

“No thank you, sir.”

Randolph and Burke raised their eye-
hoods humorously. Then they looked a
little less amused as Barnes’ voice hard-
ened.

“You might like it, Martian. Try it.”
He pulled a tough green wad of noedan
from his pouch and tore off a strip. “I
think the sooner you Martians get used to
doing as we do and liking the things we
like, the better off you’ll be. Now take this
noedan and use it.”

THE CROWDED COLONY 39

"Oh, for hell’s sake, Barnes — ” Ran-
dolph put out a hand. "Let him alone. He
doesn’t want it. It makes him sick.”

The Intelligence Officer got up from the
bar and started for the table, his eyes hard,
his aural fronds quivering with emotion.

Burke spotted him and seemed to shrug.
"You asked for it, kid,” he told Randolph.
"Give my love to the home worlds. You’re
through on Mars.”

"Maybe that’s what I wanted,” said
Randolph.

T HE INTELLIGENCE OFFICER
halted beside the table and Randolph
got up without a word and left with him.

Burke and Barnes watched them down
the winding clay street, saw them enter a
portable teleport booth, one of the several
scattered about Kinkaaka to facilitate trips
to and from the space-cube. The door
closed, the light blinked on and off, then
the booth was open again, empty.

"On his way back to the home-ship and
Parna,” grunted Burke, “and I don’t know
but that I envy him.”

"You too?”

"Yeah. Now that there’s no damned
Intelligence Officer around, me too.”
"Disgrace and all?”

"That’s what stops me — ” and noticing
the angry color to Barnes’ uiye — "and the
glory of our mission. Hell, anyone can get
homesick, can’t they?”

During the few moments of Randolph’s
arrest and departure the Martian had dis-
appeared. Barnes grunted and shoved the
noedan back into his pouch and finished
his drink.

"You’ll never get anywhere acting like
that,” said Burke after a short silence.
"You can’t shove our ways down their
throats and get cooperation.”

Barnes got up a little angrily. "Who
wants to get anywhere? What do we want
out of these creatures ? They smell ! How
are we supposed to act? We own their
smelly little world — ”

"Randolph might say we don’t own it.”
"Shut up, Burke. I’m sick of that!”
Barnes started for the door and Burke
got up to follow. They stepped out onto
the hot clay of the street, moving their
top-skins against the tight-fitting impact
of the sun’s rays.

"/ don’t want anything from them,
Burke. I’m the one who should be sent
home. I want to go home. Why should we
go around labeled with Martian names?
Barnes, Randolph, Burke, Smith — good
God ! And talking this ;\?u-twisting sutz of
a language Martian of all the time speak-
ing!”

Burke chuckled, deep in his sac. "The
Psychologists dreamed it up — to make us
seem less alien. We speak their sounds.
And we take their names. After all, no
trouble at all is better than the little they
might be able to give us if they got ex-
cited.”

They went down the street toward the
teleport booth, two big octopoids, the sun
warming their glistening brown backs.

T HE "MARTIAN” was in the cool
back room of the restaurant, seated
before a group of his kind. This was after-
noon rest period, and some freedom to
congregate existed then.

A man turned from the wall slit through
which he had watched the exit of Burke
and Barnes.

"Those things make me sick, Burke,” he
said to the "Martian”. "How can you get
so close to them and keep your stomach?
They smell.”

Burke shrugged. "You get used to it, ,
Barnes.”

He bent down and lifted the lid of a
box that was stamped: FIRST MARS
EXPEDITION— 2006. He took out a
heavy proton-buster, broke the grip and
examined its load of white pellets.

"It’s been two days now,” he went on,
"and I’m convinced at last that this one
party is all. Scouts, perhaps, from a parent
ship off in deep space. And I’ve listened
to them talk. If they don’t return, nobody’s
going to come looking for them. They come
from that kind of society. The others will
mark Sol off as a bad bet and move on.”
He clicked the gun together. "They still
think we’re the race pictured in the Mar-
tian crypts and temples — and in your
translations, Randolph. Coincidence eh?
that the old Martians were humanoid and
their appearance not discrepant with ours.”
"We colonize Mars,” mused Randolph,
"and Beta Centauri colonizes us as Mar-
tians. Ring around the rosy.”

Burke stood there, the proton-buster in

40 PLANET

his hand. “And it was cosmic coincidence
that the Centurians landed their ship at
practically the same spot we’d set down
only three days before. And it’s almost in-
credible that they came to this village
where we had taken up headquarters and
addressed us in English !” He turned to
Rarnes. “You’re the Psych-man . . . let’s
have it again. Slowly.”

Barnes half turned from the wall slit
where he had been keeping an eye out for
Centaurians. “They found our ship and
took it to be a primitive shrine of some
sort, never dreaming it was a vehicle, a
space-craft.” He waved another man to
the slit and stretched his legs as he sat
down on a crate. He struck a match and
cupped it into his pipe. “I’m almost cer-
tain that they didn’t even recognize the
mechanisms as such. Their ship, as you’ve
all seen, is a cu1>e of pure energy, con-
figurated — they’re that alien. Also, I be-
lieve they’re military men, soldiers and
minor technicians. The top specialists are
probably on the other ship, away from
possible danger and biding their talent9
until called.”

The watcher’s hand went up and flut-
tered for silence, and Barnes paused while
heavy, meaty footsteps scuffled the clay
outside. When they had passed, he spoke
again, softly:

“Fortunately, there wasn’t room in our
ship for a library, or they might have
encountered the Terrestrial mind and
caught on. But they learned our language
— English, and a damned neat trick — from
Randolph’s written translations of the
Martian inscriptiones sensuales he was
working on. And when they came here and
addressed us in that language and we re-
sponded, nolens-volens they took us for
Martians and judged us by the context of
those translations — foolish, vain and harm-
less, but perhaps with some value as work-
ers. They even took our names from the
nameplates on our bunks, something that
would have found favor with the perverse
Fourth-Era Martians they presumed us to
be.” He sucked at his pipe which had gone
out. “Their Psychologists are clever —
maybe a little too clever. They think we
have no violence potential.”

Randolph seemed almost entranced.
“But how could they have worked out the
phonetics ?”

STORIES

Barnes grinned, lifted a shoulder in ad-
miration and envy. “I don’t know . . .
Ask them.”

“They couldn’t know they were our
names,” said Randolph.

“No, but they thought they were native
names. Thank God, we got the pitch right
off and were able to carry the farce.”
“Why didn’t they just kill us?”

B ARNES FROWNED and struck an-
other match. “That would’ve been
the really smart thing to do, Dolph, but
they’re not brutes and they’re not making
war. Their intention is to colonize, and
we might as well be insects for all we
could mean to them or do to stand up to
them.”

“But if we have to be dealt with at all,
we’re in the way — ”

Barnes had the pipe going. He shook his
head. “We’re not in their way; we’re
underfoot, and only a sick mind makes a
point of stepping on ants. Would you kill
a talking louse?”

Randolph grinned. “Yes.”

“No, you wouldn’t — not until you’d
given it a going over.”

“They’re not sick in a killing way,”
Burke grunted, “but they seem to feel
that their colonizations act as cathartic to
wayward worlds. Just look at them, and
you know that’s sick.”

“The people,” said Barnes, “at the bot-
tom of any movement — a pun, gentlemen —
are always fed on dream-stuff. Soldiers
always are. Truth is, maybe the big boys
at home think they can find enough use
for us to warrant keeping us alive. As
laborers, as subjects for experimentation,
as pets.”

Burke looked out the window at the red-
dening sky. Then he gathered their atten-
tion by standing up.

“If we hadn’t been here,” he said, “they
would have gone on to Earth and taken
over. As is, they think Mars is nothing
to write home about, but they’re sticking
around to study awhile — not us, the sup-
posed latter Martians, the degenerates, but
to search out and study the bones of Mars’
civilization back when it was dynamic.
Maybe there’s something worth learning.
That’s what they think.”

He hefted the proton-buster. Barnes
and Smith and Kirk and Randolph and

THE CROWDED COLONY

41

Jason and all the others got guns from the
lx)x.

There was a hiss and they turned to
the window. Rising above the visible clus-
ter of roof-domes from some point in the
other side of the village was a smaller
edition of the Centaurians’ space-cube. It
glinted once, high up, and was gone.

‘‘There goes a pretty decent person,”
said Burke. “I’m glad we don’t have to
kill him. He appreciated Randolph’s water-
color painting of the canal.” His voice

was regretful. “How alien can you get?
His name was Randolph, and he’s going
home in disgrace.”

Night was coming. Burke’s face hard-
ened. The Centaurians would be coming
too, ready to herd the Martians into their
sleeping huts.

“One alien ship, terribly armed,” Burke
went on, “and sixty Centaurians walking
around unarmed because they think we’re
pansies.” He cocked the gun. “They’ll
never leave Kinkaaka to bring back more.”

. . .

To give you a glimpse of future

• IN THE NEXT ISSUE

THE LAST TWO ALIVE!

A Novel of Chaos and Rebirth by ALFRED COPPEL

MITKEY RIDES AGAIN

Sequel to THE STARMOUSE by FREDERIC BROWN

CARRY ME HOME CARGO TO CALLISTO

by C. H. LIDDELL By JAY B. DREXEL

Also Stories by John D. McDonald * Allen K. Lang * Fox B. Holden

• Coming up aoon . . . RAYMOND Z. GALLUN, WILLIAM TBNN, RAY BRAD-
BURY, NOEL LOOMIS, BRYCE WALTON and many others!

THE SKY IS FALLING

The Blow-Up was coming. It was near, near • • •
Johnny Hyson knew he wonld see it soon. One min-
ute, Earth. The next ... little Nova, weeping radio-
active dust into the void. Then Johnny and the
' Robot wonld build an Eden on Mars • • •

By C. H. LIDDELL

J OHNNY WONDERED W'HEN the spaceship would get
there. He didn’t know where “there” was — nobody knew.
But he was anxious for landing-day to come. It would give
day a real meaning, after the endless artificial days and nights of
the ship.

Not that the ship wasn’t comfortable, and not that there wasn't
purpose in that comfort. Johnny would have to be in perfect shape

42

43

44 PLANET

when the hour of landing finally came and
his job would begin. Because he wanted to
be in condition to do the job, he had trained
his mind to complete relaxation.

So he lay back in his deep chair, and
watched the viziports with their troubling
tri-dimensional visions of what no longer
existed. Blue sky, white clouds, birds,
the tops of buildings — he closed his eyes.
Perhaps it had been a mistake, after all,
this hiding the blackness of space by cam-
ouflage. He didn’t want to remember
Earth. There was no Earth. There was a
shaking white blaze among the stars, some-
where a long way back now, and that was
all. No Earth.

All that remained of it was himself, this
ship, the robot that took care of them both,
and the images that filled the viziports
with nostalgic pictures.

The rest was over, finished. He didn’t
often let himself think about the unpleas-
ant past, or how, for himself, the begin-
ning of the end had happened. . . .

L EANING BACK against the bulk-
head, Johnny Dyson smiled.

“Go on,” he said to the hooked fish
named Benjy White.

White tipped his head back cautiously
because of the cumbersome helmet he
wore, sprouting wires like Medusa-hair.
He looked at his own foreshortened image
reflected dimly in the steel ceiling and
nodded sagely at himself.

“Yeah,” he said, “I learned about wo-
men from her. I sure did. Toughest to-
mato I ever met, then or since. Only one
thing ever scared Poochie — I called her
Poochie — ”

Beyond the steel walls lay the endless
red hills of Mars. Beyond the steel ceiling
hung Orion in a blue-black sky lighted
by tumbling moons. Somewhere between
here and Orion rolled a time-bomb called
Earth with its fuse set and lighted and the
hours ticking along toward Blow-Up.

“I called her Poochie,” White said. “If
I told you her real name you’d be sur-
prised. After she swiped my dough and
divorced me she went right on to the
top. What a woman. Now she owns half
of—”

Johnny Dyson thought of the take-off,
scheduled for noon tomorrow. Back to
Earth. Back to the eve of Armageddon.

STORIES

“Back to the world I never made,” he
thought fiercely. “ — 7, a stranger and
afraid — ■ ”

Well, he had a right to be afraid. He
knew what was coming. He thought:

Problem : To keep the ship on Mars.

Method : To steal the atomic fuel.

It was perfectly simple. All good plans
were simple. Unfortunately it depended on
the simple mind of White whether or not
the plan worked out. And White was a
well-hooked fish, all right, but he wasn’t
landed yet. He wore the transmitter that
controlled the ship’s robot. And the robot
was the key to the fuel supply which could
bridge the long jump between Mars, where
life could be an Eden, and Earth, where
life was doomed. Sooner or later, sooner
or later . . .

“Oh, well,” White was saying. “Funny
thing is, there’s a warrant out for my ar-
rest back on Earth, and the company that
issued it belongs to Poochie lock, stock and
barrel. She don’t know about it, of
course.” He chuckled sardonically.

“Think I could get her to quash that)
warrant? No, sir. Only one thing ever
scared that woman. Thunder. If I went
to Poochie right now — only it’d be a long
walk — if I went to her and said, ’Poochie,
remember how you used to try to crawl
in my pocket whenever it thundered? Well,
now, for old time’s sake — ’ ”

He grinned, shaking his head until
the Medusa-wires whined against each
other.

“That woman,” he said admiringly.
“That woman. She’d put the cuffs on me
herself. Tough as pig-iron. Never was very
pretty, but she looks like a hippo these
days. My opinion, if she ever got the
idea of conquering the world, she’d do it.
Oh well. She went up. I didn’t.”

“What’s the warrant for?” Dyson asked,
not caring.

“Larceny. I guess I sort of miscalculated
there.” White grinned again. “Not so
good, is it? I look older than I am, the
life I led, but I’m under fifty. And I
always felt I had my best years ahead.
Still feel that way. I’d hate to waste ’em
in jail. I’ll tell you, Johnny, I kind of
like your idea of staying on here. Not
going back. Nobody to say, ’Move along,
bud.’ And then there’s lots of things I
always wanted to do, never been let. Lots

THE SKY IS FALLING 45

of things. On Earth, I’d never get a
chance.”

Now they were getting to it. Dyson
kept the eagerness out of his voice with
rigid control. All he said was, “We’re in
Eden, Benjy. We’ve got all the power we
need in the batteries — safe power. Safe
atomic power. We’ve got the robot. People
were right when they said heaven was in
the sky, Benjy. Mars is heaven.”

“Mm-m. Sometimes Mars is underneath,
too. Still, the closer I get to that larceny
rap, the more I like your idea. Just like
Paradise. Milk and honey for free. All
we’d need is some houris,” White said,
mispronouncing it.

“You can’t have everything.”

“Guess not. Still, it almost seems like
in this set-up you got planned, I could
wish for anything and just get it. If I
wished for a woman — ” He snorted. “I
might get Poochie, come to think of it.
Oh, Lord. Maybe later we could put the
robot to work on quasi-biology. I recollect
something about surrogate plasms. If I
could rig the genes in advance I could
maybe work out a nice, comfortable little
lady and speed up her growing time. Won-
der how long it’d take her to hit biological
twenty? It’s an idea, Johnny, it’s an idea.”’
“Sure, why not? Wish on a star. All
you need’s to be on the right star. This is
it. We can do anything we want, and
there’s nobody to stop us.”

“Martme,” White said.

“Two against one. Benjy?’*

“Yeah?”

“We can do it. Right now.”

White’s brows lifted.

“What’s happened? Not — ” His face
changed. He tilted his head to stare at the
dull reflection in the ceiling. Beyond it he
was seeing the night sky and the blue-
green star of Earth.

“Oh no, no,” Dyson said quickly. “Not
the Blow-Up. Not yet, anyhow.”

White shrugged. “May never come,” he
said, and stretched his arm out for a
cigarette on the table beside him. “May
never come at all.”

“It’ll come,” Dyson said quietly. “It
doesn’t matter a hoot whether or not our
cargo gets back to Earth. Ever since the
Forties physicists have been looking for
an atomic safety, and if they couldn’t even
find it through artificial radio-elements,

what good can Martian ores do? We’ve
wasted six months mining junk.”

“Can’t tell that,” White said, blowing
smoke. “We got no equipment for refining
and testing. All we do is hunt, dig and
load. The rest is up to the physics boys.”
Dyson shook his head.

“It’ll come,” he insisted. “Ever since
Alamogordo it’s been coming. So I say,
what’s the use of going back? All you’ll
get out of it’s jail. All I’ll get is — oh, I
don’t know. More hard work, more wor-
ries, the same old routine. And for what?
The Blow-Up. That’s all. Why work?”

W HITE, sitting on the edge of the
bunk, humped himself forward, el-
bows on knees, cigarette dangling from his
lips. The wires of the helmet cast complex
shadows over his face. He didn’t answer.

Dyson said eagerly, “We can pull our
plan right now, Benjy. Martine’s micro-
photographing the log - . He’ll be busy for a
couple of hours more anyway. We’ll have
all the time we need to hide the fuel.”
White tried absently to scratch his head
and tangled his fingers in a maze of in-
sulated wiring.

“Not so fast,” he said. “What’s the big
rush? We got to think this over. I’m not
going to haul that fuel around. Even if I
had lead skin, I’d still say no thanks.”
“Who’s asking you to liaul fuel? All
you’ve got to do is hand over that trans-
mitter.”

White looked at him sidewise. His eyes
grew slightly glassy. “Hold on there. The
robot’s got to stay energized. It takes
somebody’s mind to do that. If I took it
off—”

“I’d put it on.”

“Yes, but — look here, there might be
trouble if I — ”

“Martine’s busy, I tell you.”

“I mean robot trouble. Suppose we need
the critter in an emergency? After all, the
robot’s the lad who’s got to pilot us home.”
“Not if we don’t go. Look, Benjy. We
won’t be leaving Mars. Got that?”

White screwed up his face dubiously.
“Yeah,” he said.

“Okay. That means the ship will be im-
mobilized. Got that too?”

White blew smoke and studied it, squint-
ing.

“Sure.”

46 PLANET

“So we don’t have to worry about the
robot. All it’s going to do is take the fuel
out and hide it where Marti ne can’t find
it. Got that?”

White snorted and inhaled smoke.

“Sure I got it I ain’t dumb. Even if
they did pick three heat-up techs like us
for this crazy trip, that don’t mean my
head’s soft yet. I get it, all right. Only,
I got my orders about this robot. Martine
would blow his top if he caught you with
the helmet on.”

“I know how to handle the thing. I’ve
done it before.”

“Not since the Chief caught you passing
the buck to the robot,” White said with
the air of one capturing a minor pawn.

That had happened a month before when
Dyson, wearing the transmitter, had sent
the robot down a deep crevasse to test
rock strata. Martine had objected violently.
While the robot was far stronger and
more agile than a man, it was also much
heavier and more fragile, even in the de-
creased gravity of Mars. Obviously too,
Martine considered the robot much less
expendable than Johnny Dyson. Insofar as
this argument applied to the social unit it
was true, since the piloting of the ship
depended on the precision, memory and
integration of the robot. Dyson, however,
remained unconvinced.

Now he grinned. “You learn by experi-
ence,” he said. “This time he won’t catch
me. Just hand tlie transmitter over. I
know what I’m doing.”

“Well,” White said, “well — of course
if we do it at all, the robot’s the boy to
send. If a shield or a damper should slip
I’d rather the robot was carrying the stuff
than me. I’d hate to get my bones sun-
burned. Only, what about afterwards?”

“Martine? Oh, he’ll come around. He’ll
have to. He can’t get away without fuel.
He’ll find out Mars is a nice place to live —
not to visit.”

“I wonder about that,” White mur-
mured, and Dyson’s eyes narrowed. He
drew a deep breath. So much depended on
this fool, this fool —

“I thought you were convinced,” he said,
after a safe interval.

“Take it easy. I didn’t say no, did I? I
got that larceny rap to think of. But — ”
he made a wrinkled grimace of indecision
and touched the control button at his fore-

STORMES

head with a hesitating hand.

“Go on,” Dyson urged. “Take it off.
From now on you can relax. You’re free.
You can do anytliing you want. Only give
me the helmet.”

W HITE PUT BOTH HANDS to the
steel crown of the thing, lifted it a
little, rolled frightened eyes at Dyson and
then suddenly, with a gesture of abnega-
tion, raised it from his head and held it
out. The white line its pressure had left
on his forehead turned pink. He wrinkled
his brow anxiously.

“Careful, now, careful,” he said un-
necessarily. “Look out for that cord. And
cut down to minimum before you put it on.
Easy, now. Turn it up easy, Johnny.”
Dyson paid no attention to him. This
was his moment of triumph, and Benjy
White had ceased to exist A slow warmth
seeped through his skull from the contact
of the helmet, and the remote vibrations
he felt were like the vibrations of music
heard from far away. The music of the
spheres, he thought. With this on his head
he could control a planet — if Martine gave
him another five minutes of freedom.

“We’ll have to take the robot outside,”
he said. “Got a control unit on a port-
able?”

“Sure have.” White did things to a wall
panel and a square box slid out and
cradled itself on a carriage with flexible
telescoping legs.

“Two miles of wire will do,” Dyson
said. “I’ve got the place for the cache
spotted.”

“Two miles . . . mm-m. Two . . . got
it. Johnny, you really figure there won’t
be resale ships sent out for us?”

“Not a chance. Millions for defense, but
try to get a few bucks spent on an ex-
pedition like ours, once our work’s done.
Resaie ships, ha. Rescue ships take ex-
pensive equipment. They take man-hours.
You can’t waste stuff like that, Benjy.
Ask the Energy Allocation Board. It
took a miracle to get this ship out and
another to keep it from going for military
defense.”

Dyson was talking with the topmost
level of his mind, waiting for enough
power to accumulate, listening to the music
grow stronger and stronger in his skull.
“Maybe so,” White said doubtfully.

THE SKY IS FALLING 47

"What if the Chief sends out a signal,
though? He might do it somehow. He
might mark a big SOS out on the desert.”
Dyson considered the possibility, weav-
ing it in and out of that beautiful, distant
vibration of music. Martine was a prob-
lem, of course. But any problem could be
solved, if you approached it the right way.

"He’ll come around,” he said. "It’s two
against one, remember. Once he knows he
can’t ever get back to Earth, he’ll come
around. Once he knows our plans . . ,
Who'd turn down Eden?”

"Oh, it sounds like a lazy man's paradise,
all right,” White said. "That's for me.
Little streams of whiskey come trickling
down the rocks. Just the same, I’d kind
of like to see our cargo get back home.”
"What for? It’s no good.”

"Can’t tell. It might be. AU I'm saying
is, I wish I could kick the ship on the
rump and send her back to Earth.”
"How can the ship get back without the
robot to guide it?” Dyson asked in a too-
patient voice, his eyes unfocused as he
concentrated on the gathering power in the
helmet.

H E TOUCHED IT with a tentative
finger and then bent to the mirror
set in the wall to read the reversed image
of the dial set in the helmet’s front. "Won't
be long now,” he murmured. "We’re going
to need the robot, Benjy. Just remem1>er
that. Unless you want to work like a dog.”
“I been working like a dog all my life,”
White said. "And all the bones had the
meat chawed off before I got ’em. Oh,
I’m convinced, Johnny, but I can’t help
thinking about Poocliie.”

“You’d have plenty of time to think
about her in jail.”

"Guess so. Tell you what. Maybe later
we can figure a way to get the cargo home.
If we built another robot — it might take
quite a while, but if we managed it — we
could spare the one we got now.”

"Why not?” Dyson agreed quickly.
"Plenty of time to work that out later on.”
“Plenty. We’ll want something to keep
us busy, after Eden’s all built. I just — ”
He grinned a little sheepishly. "I don’t
know, I guess I just hate to give up with-
out a struggle.”

“We aren’t !” Dyson was stung. "There’s
no use struggling when you haven’t got a

chance. If there was a chance I’d be the
last man to give up, Benjy. I’d fight to the
last ditch. But Earth’s as good as gone,
and . . . oh, shut up. Don’t think about
it.”

But lie could feel it and see it — the
solid planet shuddering underfoot, buckling
above hollow emptiness, and the mushroom
cloud rolling majestically toward the sky'.
Was it Man’s fault? He’d picked up tliat
fatally sharp knife of his own volition,
but who gave Man the knife in the first
place? God? It was the fruit of the tree
of knowledge, all right, and to taste it
was to die. God’s fault, then, not Adam’s.

"Let’s go,” he said abruptly. “We
haven’t got all the time in the world.
Where’s the robot ?”

“Storage. Johnny, you thought how a
court of law might feel about this?”

"The same way they’d feel about lar-
ceny, maybe,” Dyson said, and walked the
control carriage out the door. As he tip-
toed it along the passage he could hear
White padding after him, worrying softly
under his breath.

Luckily they didn’t have to pass Mar-
tine’s door. Dyson urged the carriage
faster, watched the trundling box rock
liastily along before him like a dog on a
leash. A plump Scotty, perhaps, with
greyhound legs. He squeezed the bulb at
the leash’s end and the Scotty sprinted.

Its radioactive sodium battery had a
half-life of three years. After that, the
battery could be recharged, but not without
a pile to produce the right isotope. And
there were no atomic piles on Mars. And
there never would be. Plenty of storage
batteries in the ship, but all of those, even
hooked up in series, couldn’t throw enough
power into the ship to overcome Martian
gravity. No, Mars hugged the ship to
her l>osoin now with an unbreakable grip.
Mars the mother, restraining it with strong
apron strings, however foolishly it might
try to plunge back across space to the
world where doom awaited it. Mars would
receive and hide the fuel and hold the
ship to her bosom forever.

The batteries would be useful, though.
They’d help provide all the comforts of
home. This world, Dyson assured himself,
was going to be a perfect Eden, an Eden
with modern plumbing.

He reined the control carriage to a halt

48 PLANET

and opened the door at his shoulder. There
was the robot, waiting in storage. It hung
cradled in a resilient mould that rocked
occasionally as balances automatically
shifted and compensated inside the grey,
gleaming body.

G IGANTIC AND INHUMAN. Seg-
mented like an ant, thorax and ab-
domen linked by a universal joint. Many
specialized limbs. That was the robot. It
had bulb-shaped eyes set in its abdomen,
for underwater vision. A turret-tower of
mosaic eyes, some for day and some for
night, rose from the top of the thorax.
Lion-yellow, these eyes looked at Dyson.
Urging the carriage before him, he
stepped quickly into the room and moved
to one side uneasily, trying to elude that
steady stare. But he could not, of course.
There were always facets whose optic
axes faced the observer accurately enough
to reveal the dark pigments around the
visual sense-cells. Any spider can do the
same trick. But the false pupils’ stare un-
nerved Dyson.

He reached for a dial on the control
unit. White hissed a nervous warning
from the door, and Dyson closed his mouth
on an equally nervous retort. After all, it
had been over a month since he had worn
the transmitter, and if the robot fell down
the noise would wake the dead.

He turned the dial very gently. The
music deepened in his skull. And the robot
stirred majestically, lifting its thorax. You
could hear oiled steel moving sweetly on
oiled steel. Solemnly the great gleaming
creature climbed from its cradle and
crossed the room, walking with no re-
motest likeness to the motion of life.

Dyson met it in the center of the floor,
at the chart-table, shooing the control-
carriage before him on its nimble legs.
Together man and robot bent aljove the
table, the robot’s thoracic section hanging
enormous above Dyson’s shoulder, reared
upright and curving over him while a
compound crown of eyes focused on the
maps.

Dyson spun the selector until the right
chart came up and spread itself out on the
table in moulded relief that took the shadows
of the room in miniature perfection, cast-
ing long fingers of shade across the tinv

STORIES

plastic valleys that duplicated what lay just
outside the ship. It was perfect duplication,
every hill slope and plateau showing clear.
There was even — and Dyson blinked to
see it — a blunt oval replica of the ship
they stood in.

He felt a little dizzy, half 1>elieving that
inside that vinylite bulge on the map was
a doll-sized room where a doll-sized Johnny
Dyson stood watching a doll-sized chart . . .

Above him the robot creaked conscien-
tiously as it lowered its compound focus
toward the map. Dyson shook off the illu-
sion of infinitely repeated Johnny Dysons
receding into the microcosm and touched
the map with a careful finger, thinking
into the transmitter as his fingers traced
a course from the ship across the plain and
up the hillside. The robot watched. Faint,
remote clickings could be heard from in-
side it as it memorized the path.

Dyson was just attempting to shake off
the further illusion that a multiplicity of
other and larger Johnny Dysons extended
the opposite way, into the macrocosm,
when a harsh, crisp voice spoke like God’s,
out of the air.

“Dyson !” the voice said. “Dyson !”

W HITE INHALED with a soft,
appalled gasp. Dyson looked up
sharply, feeling his stomach turn over. For
he hadn’t heard the inter-com click on.
There had Ijeen no warning. And that
could mean it had been on all the time. His
voice and White’s could have been babbling
their mutinous plans straight into Mar-
tine’s office, straight into his listening ears.
“Dyson, report to my room. At once!”
Dyson gulped. Then he shook his head
at White and lifted a warning finger. If
the inter-com had been open both ways,
caution didn’t matter now. Still, if Mar-
tine knew what they were doing, why
waste time with the inter-com. The Chief’s
quarters were less than half a ship’s length
away. And Martine had long legs and a
loaded revolver.

“Reporting, sir, ” Dyson said hoarsely.
“That’s all.”

There was no concluding click to prove
the inter-com had been shut off. Dyson
kept his finger raised.

White was having difficulty in swallow-
ing.

T BE SKY MS FALLING 49

There was still a chance, a good chance T T E SLOWED DOWN by the time he
if Dyson hurried. He bent over the chart X 1 reached Martine’s closed door, and

again, moving his finger along the course
he meant the robot to travel. He worked
fast, but accurately. His orders clicked out
with almost mechanical precision into the
precise, mechanical brain of the robot. It
took about thirty seconds to finish.

Then the robot stepped back. Its huge
thorax lowered on the gently purring joint,
and it walked quickly out of the room.
Walked — rolled — glided. There is no word
for the gait of an organism like that. It
went smoothly and quite fast, making no
sound except for the faint, small noises
within it as mechanisms adjusted to the
task at hand. Clicking with metallic
thoughts, it moved away.

Now it would go directly to the fuel
6upply chamber. Dyson’s mind ran ahead
of the great shining ant-shaped thing and
traced its course out of the ship and across
the face of Mars, as he had just traced
it across the map. Over the plain, up the
slope, into the cavern he had found weeks
ago and marked for just this purpose. Load
by load the fuel would accumulate there
until not an ounce remained in the ship.
And nobody but Johnny Dyson would ever
know where it was. Nobody, that is, if the
robot’s memory track were erased in time.

As the huge, majestic metal thing van-
ished down the corridor White caught Dy-
son’s eye and drew his finger across his
throat.

Dyson grinned. He reached for a stylo
pad with one hand and turned down the
control-power with the other.

“All set,” he wrote. “Robot has orders.
Keep transmitter on. Robot will signal
when finished. Then erase memory track.”
He underlined the last sentence twice for
emphasis and held it under White’s nose.

God’s voice spoke again, peremptorily
out of the empty air.

“Dyson ! I’m waiting !”

“Yes, sir — coming.”

Now he would have to move fast. He
waited impatiently — and yet reluctantly,
too — while the music of the spheres died
slowly out of his skull. While its faint
vibrations still rang he lifted the helmet off
and fitted it on White’s head. Neither
of them dared to speak.

Dyson turned and ran.

4— Planet Stories— Fall

his strong will buckled slightly in the
middle. What was going to happen now?
Suppose Martine’s first words were an
accusation ?

. . . Never mind, the take-off was due to-
morrow. All three men would be needed.
At worst, Martine would say unpleasant
things. They might be very unpleasant —
if the inter-com had been on long enough.

Actually, the more urgent thing was
what White would do. His conviction was
shaky, at best. And he had full control
of the robot now. He was entirely capable
of recalling it, replacing the fuel and
letting events take their own disastrous
course, back to Earth, if Dyson left him
alone long enough for his nerve to fail.
So much depended on Dyson now — so ter-
ribly much.

He had a moment’s deep longing to lay
his burden down. If he just stood here
silent long enough, something might hap-
pen . . .

Which was, he realized, exactly the sort
of philosophy that kept Earth rolling along
the old familiar groove toward atomic holo-
caust.

He made himself knock on the door.

* * *

Martine’s collar was open at the throat.
He had his shoes off and his feet in neatly
darned wool socks were crossed comfort-
ably on the desk. Johnny Dyson stared at
him in shocked amazement. He had never
seen the Chief before except in full uni-
form, rigidly correct. Now Martine’s face
reminded him somehow of the robot de-
activated. When he saw the bottle on the
desk he knew why.

For the first time he saw that Martine
had a fat, soft face.

The big slob, Dyson thought exultantly.
So he’s solved that problem, all by him-
self. He’s got a turn-off switch, after all.
I won’t have to kill him, later on. There
won’t be any trouble I can’t handle. He
can have all the whiskey he wants. We can
make the stuff. Just pull out the nail in
his foot, let the fire drain out, and refill
with ninety-proof Martian vin du pays,
home brewed. No, distilled. Doesn’t mat-
ter. You can make the stuff out of any-

SO PLANET

thing. All you need is a ferment. And
there’s plenty of ferment in this ship right
now.

He restrained his immediate mad im-
pulse to spit in Martine’s eye and declare
his intentions, which was probably just
as well, for the Chief kept a revolver in
his desk. Dyson waited, at attention, until
Martine, who had been looking vacantly
at the ceiling, glanced down and saw him.

“Oh. At ease. Sit down, Dyson.”

“Yessir,” Dyson said with a respect He
no longer felt. It was hard to keep the
triumph out of his voice. He should have
realized that Martine had to be a second-
rater too. They couldn’t have spared him
for this trip if he’d been first rate.
“Thanks, sir,” he said.

Martine waved at the desk, where a
second, and empty, glass stood beside a full
one and the bottle.

“Pour yourself a drink, Dyson/*

T HIS WAS too good to be true. Dyson
moved forward willingly, because
from the desk he could see the inter-corn
switch. While whiskey gurgled into the
glass he leaned forward enough to observe
that the switch was closed, after all. So
Martine hadn’t heard a thing. So the plan
should work out perfectly, if White olayed
along.

“Happy landings, sir,” he said, lifting
his small glass.

“Happy landings,” Martine nodded,
sniffing at his.

But they meant very different things.
Dyson was thinking, “We’ve already made
ours. And it’s going to be happy ever after,
world without end, amen.” Not like Earth.
This is the way the world ends — how did
that line go ? That quoted-to-death line
with the irritating ending. He couldn’t
quite remember. This is the way the world
ends, not with a hang but — but — Never
mind.

“You’re off duty,” Martine said. “Re-
lax.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“We’ve done a hard job,” Martine said
with satisfaction. “Six months in the field.
Shoddy equipment. Only three of us to do
everything. It’s been quite a responsibility.
If anything had gone wrong — ” He took
another drink. “Well, the ore’s loaded, the
records went off to Earth half an hour

STORIES

ago and everything’s done. Every micro-
scopic, piddling, vital detail. Tomorrow
w'e go on duty again. But our mission’s ac-
complished.”

“For all the good it will do in the long
run,” Dyson said, and told himself to
shut up. He looked down warily at the
glass in his hand, surprised to find It emp-
ty. Careful, Johnny, careful, he thought.
“What do you mean ?”

“Oh, I don’t know. After all, the
nuclear physics boys have been working
on the problem a long time without getting
anywhere, haven’t they? I don’t see — ”
“Are you a qualified nuclear physicist?”
“I came within an ace of being one,”
Dyson said.

Martine stared at him. “What hap-
pened ?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dyson slirugged.
“I guess I just realized finally how hopeless
it all was. A good thing, too, from my
viewpoint. If I were qualified now I'd l>e
back home working on military projects
like all the other competent boys. Whether
they want to or not. It’s practically mar-
tial law back there now.”

“Got to be,” Martine said, looking at
him curiously. “You can’t just give up,
you know.”

It was the same tiling White had said,
and it infuriated Dyson. They wouldn’t
see! He caught his breath for a sharp
rebuttal, but what good would that do?
None so blind, he thought, and remarked
instead : “People don’t change, sir. That’s
the trouble. People in general are — well, a
bad lot, I’m afraid. They’re bringing on the
Blow-Up and no one can stop it. No mat-
ter what anybody does.”

“Very likely,” Martine said, bored.
“Have another drink.”

“Thanks, sir.” Dyson leaned over and
poured himself a second glass, wondering
as he did so why he kept on calling the
Chief sir ... For the first time, he real-
ized, it didn’t matter whether or not he
irritated Martine. The important point was
to allow time to get the fuel hidden. After
that, Martine would stop being an officer
automatically. (Of course, there was the
revolver in the desk. He mustn’t go too
far. )

“Where’s White?” Martine asked. It
was perfectly clear that he was bored. May-
be White would offer better entertainment.

THE SKY IS FALLING 51

"He’s — resting,” Dyson said wildly.

"Oh yes, energizing the robot for the
take-off. I forgot. Well, now you’ve had
your drink why don’t you spell him? May-
be he’d like a drink, too.”

D YSON KNEW he had to say some-
thing that would catch the Chief’s
interest — it didn’t matter what — anything,
anything. White must be left to do what
he was doing until the job was accom-
plished. All doubt in his mind vanished as
to whether White was actually operating
the robot as he had promised. Dyson was
suddenly confident about that. The only
thing that mattered was to let him finish,
to give him time, to keep Martine quiet.

"Sir,” he said, "sir, I’d like your opin-
ion. You’ve had experience. If I’m wrong
I wish you’d tell me. Is it wrong to feel my
generation’s been cheated of its rights?”
Martine yawned. Then he leaned back
to flip a switch, and a tape began to play
Lili Marlene with infinitely saccharine em-
phasis.

"You think the world owes you a living,
eh?” he asked unpleasantly.

"No, sir! Well — yes. Yes, a living, that’s
all. I want to stay alive. It isn’t much to
ask, is it? And the Blow-Up — ”

"Dyson, you’ve got atomophobia. Just
try to remember that when we get back to
Earth you’ll have a better perspective. I
know the last six months haven’t been a
picnic, but we had a job to do. Now — ”
"I’ve had perspective,” Dyson said.
"Ever since I was a kid. Sir, my father
was Dr. Gerald Dyson.”

Martine opened his eyes.

"Oh. So that’s how you qualified for
this trip. I wondered. You had the right
technical training, of course, but — I won-
dered.”

"Oh yes, I had training. My father in-
sisted on that. He worked on one of the
first bombs, you know. He was one of the
men who said, ‘Oops, sorry.’ Afterward he
got a mission in life — to find an atomic
control. Of course, there isn’t any. He’d
just lighted a stick of dynamite and
handed it over to me. Until I was old
enough to stand up for my rights and say
the devil with it. Parents always try to
compensate for their failures through their
children. But I’ve finally got clear away
from Earth. For the first time in my life

I’m out from under the shadow of — ”
He paused, looked down at his glass, shud-
dered a little.

"The shadow of the cloud, sir. A big
black cloud, spreading out. I was brought
up with it. My father ran the films over
and over, studying them. I dreamed about
that cloud. It got bigger and bigger. My
father could have handed me an Eden on
Earth, with controlled atomic power. It
could have been like a magic wand. It
could make all work unnecessary. By
rights a fellow like me, born in the Atomic
Age, should never have any problems at
all. Unlimited power’s the answer to every-
thing. But the only answer we’re getting
is the Blow-Up.”

"I wish you’d quit saying that,” Martine
declared with sudden irritation. "You talk
as if Earth had already gone up. It hasn’t.
Maybe it won’t. There’s a good chance we
can still find a control. At least, we can
go on trying.”

"But don’t you see, that kind of think-
ing is just a pep talk to the galley slaves?”

"If your precious Blow-Up ever does
come,” Martine said severely, “it’ll come
because people like you — ” He paused and
then shrugged. "Skip it,” he said. "You’ve
been under a strain, too. How about spell-
ing White now at the robot and ... no,
wait a minute. I forgot.” He regarded
Dyson with distrustful memory showing on
his face.

D yson thought of the robot

climbing down the crevasse and Mar-
tine blowing his top. He almost grinned.
The Chief’s paramount nightmare must
be that something would happen to the
robot. It had taken seven years in building
and it was as integral a part of the ship
as the fuel load. The fuel made up the
muscles, but the robot was the brain that
kept the complicated organism of the ship
functioning in space. Dyson had thought
first of disabling the robot, but he’d dis-
carded the idea very soon. For one thing,
he didn’t know how. The robot had com-
pensatory protective devices, the equivalent
of an ego balancing its id. And anyhow,
later on it would be useful.

When Eden was built on Mars the robot
would furnish the perfect means of re-
ducing details to a minimum. It could do
almost anything. To Martine its primary

52 PLANET

function was running the ship, and it was
less expendable than the men, but Mar-
tine’s feeling - toward the robot had a touch
of narcissism, Dyson thought. Probably
every time Martine looked in a mirror he
saw a synthesis of Martine and robot.

Later on, when the robot was made a
hewer of wood and drawer of water — Dyson
found himself suppressing a grin. Martine
wouldn’t like that at all. But he’d come
around eventually. He could be bought, one
way or another, just as Benjy White had
been bought, with an intangible coinage.

Martine 9at up, lifted his feet to the
floor and groped with his toes for the dis-

narnpH shops

“Guess I’ll take White a little drink/
he said.

The whiskey’s spreading warmth had
been relaxing all the tension in Dyson’s
body. Now suddenly every nerve twanged
taut again and he heard without a sound
the same vibrating chords like distant mu-
sic which he had sensed in his skull when
he wore the control helmet. Only this
time the music was all discords. He had
to stop Martine. He had to.

But Martine was on his feet now', stamp-
ing into his shoes, leaning to snap their
catches. He tucked the bottle under his arm
and picked up two clean glasses.

“Sir!”

“Well?”

“I — I’ll take over, sir. I know how to
handle the transmitter. Let me go. I’ll send
White in—”

Martine was at the door now. He simply
shook his head briskly and went out, let-
ting the door slam behind him.

Dyson looked at the clock, horrified to
see how little time had passed, horrified to
realize that in spite of all he had done this
could still be happening. Surely, he had
thought, at the last moment something
would occur to him, some clever way to
outwit Martine, some way to carry through
the scheme that had so far worked so
smoothly . . .

Martine’s footsteps receded down the
passage into silence. Lili Marlene crooned
itself away in over-sweet harmonies toward
a close while Dyson swung like a metro-
nome toward the door and away from it,
waiting in vain for some idea about what
to do next. Finally Lili Marlene was left
for good and all under the lamplight, and

STORIES

Dyson discovered that he was opening
Martine’s desk with shaking hands.

But the revolver wasn’t there any more.

So Martine would catch White while the
robot was still at work hiding the fuel, and
the ship would go back to Earth, and all
Johnny Dyson’s brave plans for a new
world began to waver around the edges.
Of course, he could run away, he could
hide. They could go back without him, if
they would — but in the long run he
couldn’t win. Sootier or later ships would
come screaming down through the thin air
above the scarlet plains, loaded with truant
officers hunting Johnny Dyson . . .

* * *

He stopped on the threshold of the stor-
age room. Benjy White was solving noth-
ing by twisting his liands together in an
agonized way above the spindle-legged con-
trol carriage. The robot-cradle, of course,
was empty. Martine wore the transmitter
helmet, and by the look on his face Dyson
knew the robot’s activation directions were
coming in clear and strong. Martine knew
everything.

His eyes met Dyson’s.

Dyson turned and ran.

DOLL-SIZED JOHNNY DYSON
ran across the contours of a doll-sized
chart away from a doll -sized vinylite
spaceship. He didn’t dare look up because
in the sky the face of a gigantic Johnny
Dyson might be looking down at him. Time
had slipped back fifteen minutes and he
had fallen into the microcosm, and some-
where up there, enormous in. an inconceiv-
ably vast spaceship, the whole scene was
playing itself over again, from the moment
Martine’s voice had snapped an order-to-
report into the inter-corn.

The vast, invisible finger of giant Johnny
Dyson, fifteen-minutes-ago- Johnny- Dyson,
had traced his trail in advance. He knew
where to run. He knew the route the robot
would have followed. But the time-factor
was unknown.

The fuel might already be stored in
the cache and camouflaged. Even if it had,
still he had failed. For White hadn’t erased
the robot’s memory track and Martine
could follow every step of the way through
the path of the metal mind.

THE SKY IS FALLING 53

Martme was running behind him now.
So was White, he thought. But he didn’t
look back. He was running from more than
Martine, more than men. He ran from the
power and tyranny of a suicidal and homi-
cidal Earth. Under his feet the ground
rang hollow, as though his subterranean
palace were already built, and waited, a
hollow Eden, for its inheritor.

Then on the hillside ahead he saw a
flicker of moonlight on metal and in the
grey pallor of the night the robot came
ponderously into his range of vision, toil-
ing mindlessly under its fuel load toward
the cave.

A shout sounded behind him, ringing
thinly in the cold air. Glancing back, Dyson
saw the dwarfed figures still running be-
hind him. The ship looked doll-sized beyond.
Illusion persisted. Everything had gone
small. Ahead of the minimized White came
marionette Martine, the transmitter gleam-
ing on his head, while he guided a puppet’s
puppet, the control box, at a grotesque
rocking run across the plain. All of them,
pursuers and pursued, moved with the
nightmare slowness and lightness that
Martian gravity induces.

Dyson’s head start — for he had plunged
headlong out of the ship, and the others
had lost time searching for him in the
corridors — was a totally useless thing. He
knew it. But he could not yet give up the
faint hope that somehow, somehow, a way
would be revealed to him at the last crucial
moment.

There was a white flash in the dark, and
the thin report of a revolver behind him.
Probably it was a warning only, for he
heard no whine of a bullet going by. He
looked up, meeting the crooked gaze of
the two moons like twq uneven eyes — eyes
in the face of giant Johnny Dyson. The
sky around him was filled with conflict.
Orion's club was lifted, Taurus’ horns
were lowered, Andromeda struggled in her
chains, Sirius was a bared and gleaming
fang. And bright among them hung a blue-
green planet — blue for purity, green for
peace , . .

Dyson’s vision telescoped through a
dizzy spiral, down diminishing vortices of
time and space. At the end was the blue-
green world and ten-years-ago Johnny
Dyson, fifteen-years-ago Johnny Dyson,
quite ignorant and quite safe. The world

was his parents’ responsibility in those
golden days. Not his. Oh youth, youth,
lovely and lost and safe.

Martine fired again.

Here-and-now Johnny Dyson ran on to-
ward the robot, which was in the act of van-
ishing into the dark mouth of the cave. The
cave was only an ant- burrow and the robot
was a shining pale ant with a grain of
sand clutched in its mandibles. Spatial di-
mensions had lost all importance along
with the rest of the natural laws. Only
in dreams did you seem to float like this
when you leaped, running as if through
glue from pursuing dangers.

Directly ahead was a pile of shielded
canisters, damper-hooks in place. Dyson
slowed to study them, trying confusedly
to estimate how many foot-pounds or tons
of lifting pressure they represented. Not
enough to lift the ship. There were only
eight. If the robot had hidden all the rest,
then Mars’ apron-strings would still be
strong enough to tie the ship down for-
ever. If — if ... of course! If the rest
were in the cave, and if he could get there
first, then the answer was childishly easy.
How could he have missed it? Exultation
boiled up in him, filling his throat with
triumph.

He heard his name shouted, and he
sprinted, bending low at each jump so the
thrust of his toe would carry him forward
and not up against the easy gravity of
Mars.

H E REACHED THE CAVE
MOUTH just as the robot’s emerg-
ing thorax caught light from the rolling
moons. It did not pause, but its false pupils
examined him, the radioatomic brain ana-
lyzed him as a mobile obstacle, and the great
worker-ant walked straight ahead. Dyson
got out of the way. The worker-ant moved
majestically downhill toward the remaining
fuel -canisters.

Dyson paused at the cave mouth, peer-
ing in. It was so dark in there. He hesi-
tated for a moment, knowing the solution
to his problem was waiting for him in the
dark, but feeling a curious reluctance to
enter that black enclosure.

He glanced back. Martine and White
were much closer, running silently, and the
robot was moving down the slope toward
them ahead of its twin shadows. There

54 PLANET

were more shadows than men moving to-
ward him up the hill, twice as many shad-
ows, in twinned pairs, one black and one
gray on the purple mosses. Deimos and
Phobos spun through the emptiness over-
head, pale silver shaping the ghosts of all
moving things behind them on the ground.
But it was Phobos that guided them.
Phobos, who is Fear.

Dyson turned his back on them. They were
still far enough away to look tiny. He could
reach across the vinylite map and take the
control box away from Martine between his
thumb and finger . . .

Instead he took out a pocket fluorescent
and shook it alight. With an uncomfortable
feeling that he was somehow violating a
sanctuary, he stepped into the cave. There
were the canisters, row upon row against
the rocky wall.

This was the mouth of Eden. He had
chosen this site for his underground pal-
ace, hidden safely away in case after all
rescue ships did come from Earth. But he
hadn’t really expected rescue ships. The
spreading cloud of his childhood had grad-
ually swelled until Earth was scarcely vis-
ible to him any more. It was a shadow cast
before the flash of the Blow-Up.

Working quickly, with both hands, he
stripped the damper-hooks from the can-
isters . . .

A few minutes afterward he ran out of
the cave and down the slope toward the
approaching men with their escort of ner-
vous shadows. His shout broke on a high-
pitched note of triumph.

“Walk right in!” he cried across the
plain. “It’s all there, Martine! It’s all in
the cave ! Go and get it !”

Then the thunders began.

T HERE WASN’T any real danger.

Not as long as they stayed out of
the cave. The fuel was blowing off canister
by canister, not all at once, because each
was a unit and constructed with every
safety precaution mankind knew how to
apply. Each one had a half-life of sixty-
five seconds. They weren’t blowing all at
once because Dyson hadn’t activated them
all at once. He had only two hands.

One canister blew. Eight seconds later
another one blew. The power that should
have lifted a spaceship was going into light
and sound and radiation too subtle to look

STORIES

dangerous. A man could walk into the
cave and right up to the canisters, if he
wanted. And he could walk out again.

What would happen to his cells, his
marrow r , his blood and bones, later, was
another matter. Radium can be leached
from the human body. But the invisible
poisons in the cave couldn’t be, ever. Gam-
ma radiation leprosy, quite incurable, was
pouring out of the canisters into the al-
ternate w'hite glare and blind darkness
of the cave.

Before that threat human conflicts al- ,
tered.

But not quite instantly. There was a
brief, stunned interval in which Martine
struggled with the readjustment of his own
mind, changing rage over into terror, tri-
umph into the awareness of defeat.

He pointed his revolver.

“Go back in,” he said. “Turn it off.”

“No,” Dyson said.

“I’ll count three.”

“I’d rather be dead.”

Martine hesitated a moment. Then,
“White,” he said.

White was staring at the bright mouth
of the cave. It blinked and went dark. He
licked his lips.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Go in yourself,” Dyson said to Mar-
tine, grinning, seeing the older man’s face
lighted again by the renewed glare from
the cave. He waited until the thunder
ceased briefly to vibrate, and said, “It’s
easy, you know. Just push the dampers in
again. Either way, you lose. Stay where
you are and you’re washed up as a com-
mander. Or go in the cave. You’ll get back
to Earth with the cargb and maybe you’ll
wear more stars on your shoulders — only
you won’t have any shoulders.”

“Shut up,” Martine said crisply.

The thunders rolled.

Martine drew a noisy breath and yanked
the control-carriage toward him. It came
on its spindling legs, like a dog. He turned
a dial. There was a clank of metal on
rock and the robot moved slowly into sight
toward them. He had cancelled its com-
mands, then, and Dyson’s orders ware
erased from its mind. But too late. Much
too late.

Now it began to move mindlessly toward
the cave.

“Fine,” Dyson jeered. “That’s the way

55

THE SKY IS FALLING

to save the fuel, all right. It’ll ruin the
robot, of course, so it can’t pilot the ship.
But what of it? Mars is a nice place to
live!”

Martine began to curse him.

“Oh shut up,” Dyson said. “You’re
through. So’s Earth. When the Blow-Up
comes, we’ll be out of it right here in our
Ark, watching the Deluge from a nice
safe distance.”

The thunders rolled.

Martine made his mistake. He fell back
on argument. His voice was still firm, but
what he said was, “Earth needs our
cargo — ”

Dyson took a long chance and swung
his arm. The revolver sailed out of Mar-
tine’s grip and thudded softly on the moss
at Benjy White’s feet. That meant Alar-
tine’s finger hadn’t been inside the guard,
on the trigger. And that meant many
things . . .

“Our cargo?” Dyson echoed, poised on
his toes and watching Martine intently,
ready to forestall the slightest move to-
ward the revolver. He wanted to pick it up
himself, but that would instantly change
the plane of conflict from moral to physi-
cal, and on the moral plane he knew he
was already the winner.

Why didn’t White pick it up? Why
had White come along, anyhow? Whose
side was lie on? Probably he didn’t know
himself. Dyson grimaced angrily at him.
But he kept on talking :

“We haven’t got the cure for the Blow-
Up in our cargo, Martine. There isn’t any
cure. And for one reason — just one. That’s
people. Men and women. They’re no good,
Martine. So they’re going to die. All of
them.” He nodded toward the roaring
cave. “This is the way the world ends,” he
said.

ARTINE LOOKED UP the slope,
listened to the thunder. He didn’t
move. He had nothing to say. Watching
him, Dyson realized tliat he didn’t care
whether White picked up the gun or not.
He had won without guns.

“All right, Martine,” he said, almost
casually. “Let’s have the helmet. You won’t
lie needing the transmitter any more.”

There was a pause. The thunders rolled.
Dyson glanced at White, who was staring
at the pale eye of the cave. Dyson stooped

swiftly and picked up the gun.

“Johnny.”

It was White, still looking as if hypno-
tized into the cave-eye.

“Well?”

“Listen.”

The thunders rolled.

“I hear it,” Dyson said. Martine neither
moved nor spoke.

“Pint-sized Blow-Up,” White said. “The
real one would be a lot w T orse. Noisier.
Somehow I never thought of that before.
The noise.”

“We won’t hear it.”

“We’d see it, though. I’d see it. I’d
know ? .” He wrenched his gaze away from the
glare of the cavern and looked up into the
dark, toward the blue-green star of Earth.
“Poochie,” he said slowly, “was always
afraid of thunder.”

Dyson felt the bottom of his stomach
drop out. He didn’t know why yet, not
with his mind. But there was some danger
approaching that had taken the lead away
from him, out of his control. It was coming
closer and closer, with every word White
spoke and every slow thought that took
shape in his brain.

“I told you about Poochie,” White said.
“She used to be my wife, once. And the
only thing that ever scared her was thun-
der. Used to hang on to me when — ”

The thunders rolled.

“Benjy,” Dyson said, his mouth dry.
“Benjy—”

“So I’m crazy,” White said. “Can’t help
what you think, kid. I never thought the
Blow-Up would sound like this. I think I
ought to be around where Poochie could
find me, if she wanted, in case the Blow-
Up comes.”

He started up the slope toward the cave.

“Benjy!” Dyson said. His voice trem-
bled. “You’d be dead in six months. And
what good would it do? Our cargo can’t
stop the Blow-Up.”

“How do you know?” White asked over
his shoulder. “It’s not for us to say. Our
job wasn’t to stop the Blow T -Up. It was
to get some Martian ores back home. A
man ought to do his job if he takes the
pay for it.”

“Benjy! Don’t move! I tell you, you
can’t stop the Blow-Up !”

“I sure as hell can stop this one,” White
said, and went on up the slope.

56 PLANET

“Benjy, if you take another step I’ll

shoot !”

White glanced over his shoulder.

‘‘No you won’t, Johnny,” he said. “No,
you won’t.”

Dyson tried to squeeze the trigger.

He couldn’t.

He concentrated on White’s silhouetted
hack and sighted along the revolver, and
he forced a command down his arm, into
his index finger. But the message never
got through. Martine moved faster.

M ARTINE took the long, quick for-
ward step and slammed the edge of
his palm down on Dyson’s wri3t. The gun
exploded in mid-air as it spun away.

The thunders rolled.

“Benjy!” Dyson shouted. It came out a
thin whisper. He had to stop Benjy. He
had to. Benjy mustn’t go into that cave.
It was very, very wrong, somehow, for
anyone but Johnny Dyson to go into that
cave. He took a step forward, but Mar-
tine, revolver ready, blocked his path. Mar-
tine, the truant officer, ready to collar him
and drag him back to Earth. Back to work,
discipline, responsibility.

Work. Discipline. Responsibility —

“Oh, no, no!” Johnny Dyson whispered.
In his mind’s eye he saw his fragile Mar-
tian Eden glisten under the moons, all its
palaces and shining towers beginning to
dissolve around him.

A Geiger began to tick in his brain.

It ticked faster and louder.

It roared.

Then he felt the flash. He felt the top
of his head open and the bursting nova
explode and the ballooning black cloud
spurt upward through the sutures of his
skull. The cloud rolled out enormously,
its edges curling over and under in the
familiar, the terrible shape of doom. He
looked up to see it . . .

He saw the Earth-star, blue-green against
the dark. He saw it change. He sazv it
change . . .

The explosion in his head must have
been only a faint and remote echo, he
thought, of that other and larger and
farther nova-burst. For an instant half the
sky was 'blotted out in the white glare of
exploding Earth. He saw it happen.

Then the glare receded and condensed.
The Earth-star took shape again, no longer

STORiES

blue for purity and green for peace, but
a dreadful, shaking, unstable glow.

This is the way the world ends . . .

Not with a bang, but a whimper.

He heard himself laughing.

He stumbled up the slope after White.

“Benjy!” he yelled. “Benjy, wait! It’s
happened! Didn’t you hear? Look up —
it's happened!”

White slogged on, not turning. Dyson
labored after him, seized his shoulder.
White paused and looked uncertainly into
his face. Dyson couldn’t stay still. He
couldn’t stop laughing. He danced — the
old, old dance of triumph. When Martine
reached the spot he danced around Mar-
tine too.

“What’s happened?” Martine shouted at
him.

“The end of the world !” Dyson shrilled.
“This is the way, all right. You must have
heard it! Earth’s gone. We’re safe. Safe
in Eden. Look up, you dopes, look up!”

Two of the men looked up, while the
third danced. Danced and laughed. Johnny
couldn’t stop laughing, even when Martine
and White lowered their gaze and stared
at him.

“Dyson,” Martine said in a curious, low
voice. “Dyson. Listen. Nothing’s happened.
You must have — imagined it. Look up, see
for yourself.”

Johnny looked. It was still there, all
right. A trembling white glare in the sky.
He laughed more shrilly than ever.

“But Dyson — ” Martine said. White
shook his head at him, reached out and
took Johnny by the arm, stopping his
dance.

“It’s all right, Johnny,” he said. “You’re
safe now. Everything’s fine. Now you just
take it easy and wait for me. I’ll be back
in a little while.” He whispered something
to Martine. Then he started up the slope
again, toward the cave.

Johnny stared after him.

“Benjy!”

There was no answer.

“Benjy, what’s the matter with you?
You don’t need to save the fuel now.
Earth’s gone. We’re safe. We don’t have
to go back. Don’t you understand — ”

“Easy,” Martine said. “It’s all right.”

White went on slowly up the hill, his
shoulders hunched as if against a wind that
was not blowing. He was getting smaller

THE SKY IS FALLING

and smaller, vanishing into the microcosm.
Johnny Dyson blinked into the white eye
of the cave. Then the rolling thunders
swallowed Benjy.

A FTER A WHILE THEY were in
the ship again, ready for the take-off.
And, after that, Martine and White talked
as if they had actually left Mars, headed
back toward — well, not Earth, because ob-
viously there was no Earth. Where, then?

Johnny tried to figure it out. When he
asked questions the answers he got were
so irrational that he had to translate them
into his ora terms ; but presently he found
a solution that satisfied him. When they
said “Earth” they meant it only as a
symbol. They were, logically enough, going
to try to locate another habitable planet
somewhere, a planet even better than
Mars, where they could rebuild Eden.

And that was all right too. Because,
after thinking it over, Johnny realized that
it would have taken a lot of hard work to
build his Martian Eden, even with the
robot to help. It would have been quite a
responsibility.

It was better to let the older men have
the responsibility.

Of course the Blow-Up must have been
quite a shock to Martine and White. It
was difficult for them to readjust. But it
did no harm to let them pretend. The
name didn’t matter. They thought of the
new, undiscovered planet as Earth. When
they found it they might even call it Earth
— New Earth, in memory of the bad Old
Earth that was gone. Gone forever, with
all its worthless, evil infestations of hu-
manity. For that Johnny couldn’t really
feel regret.

He made allowances for his companions,
even when they acted a little crazy. It was
odd, being the only completely sane mai
in the ship.

He waited. There was a period of vivid,
confusing dreams in which he almost ima-
gined himself back on Earth, but presently
the dreams passed and were gone. Then
he was able to sleep soundly again.

57

. . . Johnny’s spaceship kept on going.

Sometimes he wondered when it would
reach its destination. He was tired of the
artificial days and nights of the ship, and
those viziports with their disturbingly vivid
images of what no longer existed. It had
been pointless, after all, trying to dis-
guise the blackness of space with those
visions of Old Earth outside the windows.
And it had been rather foolish to disguise
the robot so that it looked like a man in
white when it came in to bring him food and
get its orders from him.

Someday when he felt more like it, he
would change the orders and remake the
robot, casting it back into its metal reality.
But he was tired. He had to rest. He
musn’t take on any unnecessary responsi-
bilities now, because the day was coming
when the ship would land on a liabitable
planet and his work would begin.

And he’d do his job. He’d do it well. He
hadn’t given up. Oh no, not Johnny Dy-
son.

His own father had lain down on the job,
of course, first trying to pass the buck to
Johnny, and then, when that failed, simply
by going insane. A complete refusal to
accept responsibility. Yes, that was the
only sin — giving up. For if his father liad
stayed on the job, he might have found
an answer. After all, Dr. Gerald Dyson
had been a brilliant man.

But Dr. Gerald Dyson had given up. He
had ended his career in an insane asylum,
very likely so happy in his ultimate retreat
that he’d never even known it when the
Blow-Up came.

If I’d had my father’s chances, I’d have
kept on fighting to the last ditch, Johnny
thought. But I’ve got my own job. It isn’t
too late. And if the ship ever reaches a
habitable world, I'll start right in working
at it.

He glanced at the viziport images of a
world that had given up and therefore had
died, quickly and painlessly.

Johnny smiled.

He was so happy in his spaceship room
that he never knew it when the real Blow-
Up came.

MEEM

A Short Story by MARGARET ST. CLAIR

The log-shrouded marshlands of Vaudria seethed with man*
hunt • • • and Duncan, with his stolen secret, sought refuge in
the Earth-Ship GORGO. Safe behind steel . • • until, faraway,
a strange Lorelei shaped its song . • •

T his time last year dun-

can had been junior commissioner
for protocol at the Terrestrial Em-
bassy. Discreet, hard working, popular with
his male and female colleagues alike, the
future had seemed to hold nothing for him
but a series of comfortably merited ad-
vancements to full consular rank. Now he
crouched under the bridge in the chilly
dankness of the Vaudrian night, holding
on to the upright and shivering uncontrol-
lably, while he prayed, prayed to every-
thing in his nebulous pantheon, that the
Vaudrian patrol wouldn’t find him. It
wouldn’t be so bad if they merely shot
him, but he doubted they would let it go at
that.

The meem, snuggled warmly under his
jacket, stirred lethargically. He could feel
the tiny ticking of its thoughts going past
his. “Safe,” they ran, “safe? So tired.
Safe on Earth.”

Duncan grinned lopskledly. Safe? Not
by a damnsight ! He wouldn’t be safe until
he was on board the S'. \Gorgo, if then.
From the respected member of a respected
profession he had turned, degree by degree,
into a hunted man. He was a human ex-
plosive, the potential disseminator of a
biological scandal of major size. If he ever
got back to earth, what he had to tell
would rip the heavy fabric of terrestrial-
Vaudrian relations from bottom to top.
And yet it had happened so imperceptibly !

58

The conversation with Nickerson that
afternoon last year had been the starting
point. The Embassy staff had been clus-
tered on the roof of the Embassy building,
watching excitedly, through binoculars,
opera glasses, and a variety of optical
aids, the Vaudrian throngs streaming
into the already-packed great circle
that marked the city’s heart. The influx
had ceased only when it was physically
impossible for another Vaudrian to push
his way into it. There had been a second
of tense silence, when the huge crowd was
utterly still. And then, thrillingly audible
through the calm air, a single high note
had poured out of nearly a million Vau-
drian throats.

The people on the roof of the Embassy
building had leaned forward intently.
Nickerson, standing beside Duncan, had
jogged his shoulder to be sure he was
watching. Slowly the doors of the circular
temple on the edge of the great circle had
parted. The temple statue, visible on this
day only, was revealed.

Duncan had seen it clearly; it was quite
as impressive as people said. The group
represented two persons, a seated man
and a girl-child. The man’s left hand was
resting lightly and tenderly on the shoul-
der of the girl who stood between his
knees. His other hand pointed past the
girl’s head into the distance, and the girl’s
rapt, dreaming gaze followed it. The inner

lit •»"”

the V audrian patrol was ringing him in

The weird lights drew nearer in the fog

59

60 PLACET

meaning of fatherhood — loving, uplifting,
fostering — had never been more beauti-
fully expressed.

A SHUDDERING long-drawn Oh had
gone up from the Vaudrians. Then
the doors of the temple had begun to close
again. Duncan had time to observe that the
group was made of some frosty silver
metal and that the object at the feet of the
father was probably a meem, the universal
Vaudrian pet. Then the temple doors had
gone to, not to open for another year, and
the silent crowd began to disperse. To-
morrow was Father’s Day, but it would
be observed without ceremonial, within
the quiet confines of millions of Vaudrian
homes.

Duncan had begun to put his field glasses
away. “By the Father and the Daughter,”
he quoted from the Vaudrian ritual to
Nickerson; “I’m glad I saw it. It was
impressive and beautiful, worth waiting a
year for.”

“Yes . . .” Nickerson had fidgeted with
the straps of his binoculars. The rest of
the Embassy staff was going down the
escalator, chattering in subdued tones, but
Nickerson seemed to want to linger on the
roof and talk. Since he was Duncan’s
superior, Duncan waited respectfully for
him to speak. Nickerson had cleared his
throat and leaned toward him. “Did you
know . . . that they’re not mammals, my
boy?”

Duncan had been taken aback. The point
had never occurred to him. Like most
Terrestrials, he had found the Vaudrians
unsympathetic except where their father-
daughter cult was concerned, but he had
never questioned their basic likeness to
himself.

“But . . . they’re warm-blooded and they
suckle their young,” he said after a mo-
ment. “They look like us, except for their
greater height and their bluish pigmenta-
tion.”

“There’s more to being a mammal than
warm blood and suckling,” Nickerson had
said. “Besides, did you ever notice that
they don’t suckle their children when
they’re very young?”

(How much had Nickerson surmised or
guessed? Duncan wondered. He shifted his
numb fingers on the clammy wood of the
bridge and tried not to cough. Everything?

STORIES

No, the remark about the suckling must
have been no more than a coincidence.)

Nickerson had pulled at his sandy mous-
tache for a moment. “Of course you under-
stand this is in strict confidence, my boy,”
he had said. Duncan had smelled the heavy
sweetness of phlomis on his breath. “One
of the chaps at the Embassy here whose
hobby was biology told me a few things
he’d found out about them.” He had hesi-
tated ; and if he had stopped there (Dun-
can thought, listening to the cold lapping
of the water under the bridge), everything
would have been all right. Duncan would
have been sitting in front of one of the
Embassy fires now, sipping a nightcap of
champagne and thinking that it was about
time for bed. But Nickerson had gone on,
he had gone on and ruined everything.

“They reproduce by parthenogenesis,”
he had said. Duncan could feel now, as
vividly as if it had been yesterday, the
shock the slow words had given him.
“Inokeye assured me it was by partheno-
genesis.”

“But — but — ” Duncan had stammered.
He had stared blankly at Nickerson, ex-
pecting a hint that the older man was
making a joke. “That’s impossible! What
about their cult of fatherhood ?”

Nickerson had shrugged for answer.
“But — ” Duncan had repeated. “But I
always understood that in parthenogenesis
no males were born.”

^^TICKERSON had looked all around
-L ^ him before answering and then,
though there was no one on the roof ex-
cept themselves, had lowered his voice.

“You really must keep this to yourself,
Duncan,” he had said wamingly. “Ter-
restrial industry — I don’t think it’s alto-
gether a good thing — has become so de-
pendent upon large-scale imports of benite
from Vaudria that we can’t risk offending
them. Vaudrian touchiness in these matters
is really remarkable. Did you know that
no Terrestrial has ever seen, been allowed
to see, I mean, a Vaudrian text on biology?
— But Inokeye thought the answer to your
point about males being born might lie in
the fact that they aren’t functional males.”
“You mean there’s no mating?”

“There not only isn’t, there couldn’t
possibly be.” And Nickerson had gone into
anatomical details. He had finished with a

MEEM

further warning to Duncan to keep what
he had learned strictly to himself.

Nobody could possibly have heard the
conversation. Duncan and Nickerson had
been alone on the roof, in the open air. But
next week Nickerson had been unexpected-
ly transferred to Mars — kicked upstairs, as
Embassy scuttlebutt had it — and Duncan
had begun to notice a certain thickening
in the atmosphere that surrounded him
personally. He had laughed at himself for
his suspicions, but he had set traps. As
a result of the trap-setting, he had found
that his papers were being searched regu-
larly twice each week.

His colleagues in the Embassy were not
quite so friendly as they had been. Toby,
Nickerson’s successor, called Duncan in
for a long, pointless interview, in the
course of which he expressed admiration
for the Vaudrian Father-Daughter cult and
pleasure that it was being extended to
Earth. Duncan had perceived that he was
being tested, that his loyalty was being
checked. But loyalty to what? To whom?

Even then it might have died down
gradually, except for the lettergram from
Nickerson and Duncan’s friendship with
Jrar. Jrar was a young Vaudrian chemist
who had come to the Embassy to try to
arrange for the importation of some spe-
cial terrestrial chemical apparatus he
wanted. Duncan had helped him with the
papers and discovered a tepid liking for
him. They had lunched together once or
twice.

Jrar had been somewhat less reticent
than most Vaudrians. Duncan had learned
that he was twenty-two, that he wasn’t
married yet (highly unusual for a Vaud-
rian), that though he had good prospects
he wasn’t altogether satisfied with them.

It was toward the end of the second
lunch date that the significant thing (Dun-
can realized it now) had been said. Jrar
had been holding the restaurant’s meem
on his knees, stroking its thick blackish
fur absently, and Duncan liad said some-
thing or other about wondering why ineems
were so universally popular. They were, he
thought, too sluggish and unresponsive to
make good pets. Jrar liad looked at him
for a moment and then, in a voice unlike
his usual one, had said, “Did you ever
notice, Duncan, how the meems disappear
after Father’s Day?”

61

That liad been all. Jrar had changed the
subject quickly after that.

D uncan shifted his position,

trying to ease his cramped limbs. His
hands were so cold that he was afraid
he might lose his grip and fall. He leaned
forward abruptly, apprehension waking in
him. Had he seen, about half a mile off
through the light mist, a spot of light that
seemed to waver and slowly expand? That
would be the patrol, and if it was, he’d
have to get out. Where could he go? His
rendezvous with the Gorgo’s third mate
wasn’t due for another two hours. He’d
wait a little, wait and hope and keep his
fingers crossed.

The friendship with Jrar would have
stopped anyway. The two men had not
enough in common to keep their interest up.
But the next day Toby had called Dun-
can into his office and told him sternly
that, as Duncan must already know, friend-
ships between Vaudrians and Terrestrials
were not encouraged. There had been
complaints about his seeing Jrar from a
Vaudrian high-up. Duncan must drop the
acquaintanceship.

Duncan had listened and agreed, fuming
inwardly. He had been too angry to de-
fend himself. He’d gone back to his room
and read the lettergram from Nickerson
again, more and more puzzled by it. It
seemed on the surface to lie merely a
friendly letter, full of personal news and
trivialities. But it didn’t sound quite like
Nickerson, and after a good many hours
Duncan had succeeded in decoding it.
Nickerson advised him urgently to make
contact with the A. S. Gorgo’s third mate.
The Gorgo wasn’t due in port for a month
yet. Next week J:he Vaudrian newscaster
had announced, among other items, that
the body of a young Vaudrian chemist, a
man named 803 Jrar, had been found in
an abandoned house.

Duncan was tall enough to pass for
Vaudrian, and the blue pigment could he
simulated. He decided to try to pick up
Jrar’s trail.

He had been very, very careful. He liad,
on the whole, had considerable success. He
had found, as he thought, that Jrar had
been murdered. And he had found —

It was the patrol. He would have to
leave the bridge immediately. The spot of

PLANET STORIES

62

light had been much nearer this time. That
meant that they were “ringing’’ the area
where he was, piece by piece.

Duncan began to work his way toward
land, jumping from trestle to trestle of
the bridge. Once he missed his footing on
the slippery rounds and nearly went into
the deep, icy stream. His alarm must have
registered in the meem’s little mind, for
he could feel the instant patter of its
thoughts. “Be careful, Duncan. Not safe.
Get to Earth. Be safe.”

H E STOOD hesitating when he had
reached the shore. Where could he
go? In his dirty, exhausted condition, the
disguising pigment gone, the first Vaud-
rian who saw him would call the patrol.
He’d try the Gorgo, on the chance that the
third mate might be around somewhere.

His physical activity seemed to have
aroused the meem from its lethargy. Its
thoughts were coming in a thick stream
now. Occasionally Duncan answered them.
Discovering that meems were telepathic and
how to contact them had been one of his
most valuable achievements in the period
during which he had been following Jrar.
The discovery had enabled him to pick out
a meem which was discontented and afraid
and hence would cooperate.

The Gorgo was a long way off, and
though Duncan tried to hurry, the days of
exposure and strain had told on him.
Once he looked back and saw the expand-
ing ring of light near where he had been
on the bridge. An involuntary quiver
passed over him. What would have hap-
pened to him if the patrol had caught him?
What happened to the meems, probably.
Tt was characteristic of Vaudrian psychol-
ogy to make the punishment fit the crime.

Finding out about the meems had been
pure accident. Duncan had been sitting in
a third-rate bar, drinking the licorice-
flavored pap that passed for intoxicating
liquor on Vaudria. The bar hostess had
stepped out to get change for the bill he
had given brer. And then her baby, in
the room behind the ill-lit bar, had begun
to cry.

Duncan had hesitated. But the baby had
kept on crying, louder and louder, until
finally Duncan, in his role of Vaudrian
male, had stepped into the back to try
to comfort it. He’d jounced the crib up

and down several times — it was suspended
on springs from the ceiling — and when the
infant kept on screaming had put out his
hand uncertainly toward its cheek.

The baby was very young, less than a
month. But it had turned its head toward
Duncan’s fingers with uncanny rapidity.
And while he had still been wondering at
the movement, it had licked fiercely at his
hand.

Duncan had let out an amazed cry. The
child’s tongue had been as hard and rough
as a file. His wrist was smarting and
stinging where it had rasped the flesh from
it.

Then the outer door had banged and
the bar hostess had come running in, all
apologies for the accident. (Fortunately
she hadn’t seen the color of the blood
oozing from Duncan’s wrist.) She had
picked up the child and soothed it expertly,
and when it hushed had said, as if in
explanation, “His meem died too soon. He
misses it.”

Duncan had had another drink and left.
That night he had stolen the meem.

H E COULD SEE the Gorgo now
through the thin mist, a mile-high
bulk. The ship was loading cargo. He could
hear the whine of the winches and see the
aureoles of its sodium lights through the
haze. Ingots of benite were moving steadily
into the ship’s dozen holds. In the confused
activity of loading, he might be able to
get close and look for Picket, the third
mate.

An instant later Duncan felt despair
invade him. Twenty or so Vaudrian sol-
diers were standing about the open holds,
as if they were on guard. Their officer
fan elderly woman, as always) was talking
to the Cargo’s second mate.

Had the message from Nickerson been
detected? If so, the soldiers were on the
lookout for him, Duncan, and Picket must
be already under arrest. Duncan came
closer, thankful for the cover given by the
mist, and listened intently.

What he heard reassured him. The
Vaudrian officer’s high voice carried well;
she and the mate were discussing smug-
gling and he was assuring her that the
Vaudrian government would have the full
cooperation of the Gorgo’s personnel in

ItfEE/tf 63

seeing that nothing went in or out of the
ship illicitly.

The message, then, hadn’t l>een discov-
ered, and Picket was still at large. But
what was Duncan to do? He looked be-
hind him and saw, with painful apprehen-
sion, that the expanding lights of the “ring-
ing” process were getting close again.

The tneem stirred beneath his jacket.
“Rope,” its thoughts came; “Duncan, climb
little rope.”

Duncan looked about, wondering what the
creature meant. (It was apparently some-
what clairvoyant, as well as telepathic,
since it couldn’t see from its hiding
place.) After a moment, he located the
rope. It was a slender electrical cable to
one side in the shadow. It went up to
a ring that was near an open hatch. The
cable was used, Duncan knew, for ground-
ing the huge charge of static electricity
the Gorgo had picked up in space. He
tested the cable, and it was solidly tied.
He only hoped the insulation was sound
on it.

He waited an instant, taking deep
breaths. Then he caught hold of the cable
and began to haul himself up on it, hand
over hand.

He was wickedly tired. His weight
wrenched at his shoulder sockets, and his
muscles felt soft and hot. The cable was
slack, and that increased the difficulty of
his climb. The fog thickened as he went
up.

He was two thirds of the way to the
ring, fifty or sixty feet from the ground,
when there came a burst of shouts at him
from below. A light shone up dimly
through the fog; somebody had seen him.
A second later there came the long roll of
a stun gun.

The meem was frightened; its thoughts
went screaming past Duncan in almost
vocal hysteria. The stun gun trilled again.
Duncan bit his lip until he tasted blood.
Then he let himself slide down the cable
about ten feet, and, with a precise coordin-
ation of which he never would have be-
lieved himself capable, used the momentum
thus imparted to swing in at an open port-
hole below him and to the right.

He almost missed it. He caught the edge
of the frame with his fingernails, and
clawed his way over it; then he was in a
softly-carpeted corridor and running down

it desperately.

He made two turns before he found a
stateroom whose door had been left ajar.
He darted in, Imrriered the door, and col-
lapsed against it. His whole body was
shaking with his heart’s desperate thuds.

He wasn’t safe. They knew he was on
the ship, and they’d search the ship for
him. He might be able to hide for a
while, but sooner or later he’d be found.
He’d exchanged the frying pan for a pot
of similar temperature.

He couldn’t go any further. He’d have
to rest. He sank down oil the padded
bunk, so tired that he hardly cared if he
was caught.

The meem poked its flat head out. Its
dull eyes looked at him. “The man, the
man you want. Near here,” came the patter
of its thoughts.

“How do you know?” Duncan asked
aloud.

“He is thinking of you.”

D UNCAN LOOKED at the meem for
a moment. It had lain down again, a9
if exhausted by its recent activity.

“Where is he?” Duncan asked.

“To your right.”

Duncan scrubbed his face hastily with
the end of a damp towel — he might meet
someone in the corridor — and smoothed his
his hair. His image in the mirror was still
desperate and hollow-eyed. He stepped
into the corridor.

He found Picket leaning up against one
of the bulkheads, his hands in his pockets,
whistling idly. The stripes on his blue
sleeves identified him clearly enough. Dun-
can softly gave him the countersign.

“You’re not mixed up in anything —
unh — serious, are you?” Picket asked
when the two men liad gone back to the
cabin. His sleepy, good-natured face wore
a disconcerted look. It was clear that Dun-
can’s unexpected arrival and hunted, har-
ried appearance had discomposed him.

Duncan hesitated. He was too tired to
think. He decided on the exact truth. “I
stole this,” he said, indicating the limp
form of the meem. “Taking them from
Vaudria is forbidden by interplanetary
agreement. But they would have killed it
if I’d left it here.”

Picket’s face cleared a little but re-

<54 PLANET

mained dubious. He jingled the keys in
his pockets uncertainly and frowned at the
meem. “I guess it’ll be all right,” he said
at last. “Old Nickerson did me a good
turn once, and I’d like to pay it back. He
said you were in some sort of mess with
the Vaudrians.”

“Are they searching the ship?” Duncan
asked.

Picket looked surprised. “Why, no,” he
said. He halted and grinned boyishly.
“You and old Nick seem to have Vaudria
on the brain. The last time I saw him, all
lie could talk about was how Vaudrian
trade was getting too important to earth. I
haven’t cared much for the Vaudrians
I’ve met, but they’re not sinister. Nicker-
son’s wrong about that. They’re just like
anybody else.”

Duncan bit his lip and made no reply.
Was this the attitude he’d have to buck
when he got back to earth? Business as
usual and no slanders, please, on the
Vaudrians ? But he had the meem, and ex-
amination by a biologist would show that
what he had to say was true. He could
convince them, he knew he could.

“You look worn out, old timer,” Picket
said sympathetically. “Lie down and rest,
and I’ll go see the purser and have him
put you on the passenger list. I’ll fix it
up with him about your passport, too.” He
cleared his throat. “I don’t know why you
stole that thing, and I’m not going to
ask. But the Vaudrians won’t get you now.
We’re jetting for Terra tomorrow at 16.
You’re safe here.”

Where else was there to go, what else
could he do?

“I hope so,” Duncan said.

I N THE OFFICE of the Vaudrian
overseer of police, a kilometer or so
from the space port, 429 Bood was remon-
strating respectfully with his immediate
superior.

“Would it not be well to take them now,
my lady? They must not escape. We
know they are on the ship. We could
apply to the captain for license to search
the ship.”

88 Etath smiled at him indulgently. “And
if he refuses it?” she said. “That would
be unpleasant. It is better this way, Bood.”
She put her lean bluish fingers together.
‘‘Are you forgetting what day tomorrow

STORIES

is?”

“Oh,” said 429 Bood.

“There will be no trouble, no unpleasant-
ness. It will happen quietly. He is bound
to be affected. I have seen it before with
men from Earth.”

“Oh,” said Bood once more.

“Bring your wife with you when you
report for duty tomorrow,” said 88 Etath,
dismissing him. “And see that the men
under you bring theirs.”

♦ * *

Duncan was roused from apprehensive
reveries next morning by Picket’s discreet
rap on the cabin door. Picket had brought
breakfast and, in a musette bag, a change
of clothing. There was a worried expres-
sion on his pleasant face.

“When you’ve finished, I think you’d
better get out of here,” he said to Duncan
as he ate. “I brought one of my old suits
for you.”

Duncan pressed one hand to the back of
his neck. “Is — are the Vaudrians searching
the ship?”

“No, it’s just Vaudrian sightseers.
Mainly women, and only one or two of
the men are armed. The old man gave them
permission to go over the ship.

“But we’re not taking on passengers
until twelve, and they might wonder about
you if they saw you. I think you’d better
change into my old clothes and go up
to the chart room with me. If they see
you there, they’ll think you’re an officer.
What about that thing, though?” Picket
indicated the meem, which, as inert as a
feather stole, was lying on the edge of
the bunk. “What can we do with it?”

Duncan pressed his hand once more to
the base of his skull. The meem’s eye 9
were open, so he knew it was not asleep,
but he could no longer make contact with
its thoughts. “It can hide under my tunic.
I’ve carried it that way all along.”

Picket’s face relaxed a little. “Can it
be trusted to keep still, though ? You said
stealing it was forbidden by interplanetary
agreement. You might get into a mess if
it gave you away.”

“It’ll be quiet,” Duncan said abstract-
edly. “It wants to get to Earth just as
much as I do. It would be killed if it
stayed here.” He stood up, staggering a
little. He had to catch at the bracket above
his head to get his balance back.

MEEM 65

Picket looked at him in quick alarm, made a faint, miserable noise. Then, as if

“What’s the matter?” he said. “Are vou
sick?”

“I’ve got a splitting headache, that’s all.
I might be a little feverish.”

“Oh. You’ll feel better when we’re in
space, I guess.”

D UNCAN began to change into Pic-
ket’s uniform. There was, as he had
foreseen, room enough for the meem in-
side the tunic. He picked the animal up
and arranged it against his chest. As if
the movement had disturbed it, the sluggish
current of its thoughts began flowing again
(“Safe? Safe? So far to earth.”), and it
cooperated with him lethargically.

“Now, where do we go?” Duncan asked
when he had finished. For a moment he
pressed both hands tightly to his head.
“Lord, how my head hurts. I took two
tablets from the aid chest when I woke
up, but they didn’t help. I don’t feel
quite myself.”

Picket looked at him but made no com-
ment. He led Duncan out into the corridor
and turned to the left. A hundred steps
further, and they turned to the left again.

“The chart room’s on the next level,”
Picket said softly. “The shafts aren’t
turned on, so we’ll have to walk up the
emergency stair.” They moved on a few
steps.

“Hey, where are you going?” Picket
cried in sudden amazement. “The sight-
seers are down that way ! Come back here !
Come back!”

Duncan made no answer. With rigid
energy he shook off Pickett’s grip on his
arm. He began walking down the corridor
toward the distant group of sightseers with
long, stiff steps, shaking his head from
side to side.

Picket stared at him unbelievingly for a
second and then came after him. He
caught him by both shoulders and held on.
“Stop it!” he hissed. “Are you out of
your mind?”

With no perceptible exertion Duncan
broke away from him. His face was darkly
flushed and his lower jaw hung loose. He
5— Planet Stories— Fall

obeying some irresistible call, he started
toward the Vaudrians again with the same
stiff, bouncing walk.

Picket hesitated. It was already too
late. Heads were turning toward them,
voices were being raised. His face a mask
of bewilderment, Picket leaned back
against the bulkhead and incredulously
watched.

As Duncan drew nearer the group of
sightseers, it shaped itself smoothly into
an open square. There was something
faintly menacing about the formation, but
Duncan did not even slow down. When
he was about five feet from the Vaudrians
he stopped and, with fingers whose stiff-
ness was apparent to Picket even at that
distance, began to unbutton his tunic. The
meem hopped out.

Four silenced stun guns hissed softly to-
gether. Duncan fell as if he had been
poleaxed, stiffly and in one piece. 88 Etath
gave a low order to her men. They closed
evenly around Duncan and picked him up.

The meem paid no attention to what was
going on behind its back. It was wholly
occupied with frisking and curveting
around the alluring females of its race.
Their attraction — the wonderful attraction
which had reached into the cabin seeking
the meem and enmeshed Duncan at the
same time — Held the animal irresistibly.

It knew what would happen to it, but it
no longer cared. Since Duncan had stepped
into the corridor with it in his tunic it had
ceased to struggle and resist. After the
mating there would come the egg laying,
after the egg laying the long period when
the young Vaudrians would feed painfully
on its still living flesh.

What did it matter? The desire whose
contagion, received telepathically by Dun-
can, had driven Duncan straight toward
the Vaudrian stun guns, burned brightly
and compellingly in the meem. Duncan
would probably share its final fate as food
for the Vaudrian young. What did it mat-
ter? The meem was the Vaudrian func-
tional male, the semi-parasitic father of the
next generation. Its females were before
it. Today was Father’s Day. The meem
wanted to mate.

STAR SHIP

By *

POUL

ANDERSON

I

W ITH SUNSET, THERE WAS
rain. When Dougald Anson
brought his boat in to Krakenau
harbor, there was only a vast wet dark-
ness around him.

He swore in a sulfurous mixture of
Krakenaui, Volgazani, and half a dozen
other languages, including some space-
man’s Terrestrial, and let down the sail.
The canvas was heavy and awkward in the
drenching rain; it was all he could do to
lash it around the boom. Then he picked up
the long wooden sweep and began sculling
his boat in toward the dock.

Lightning flared bluely through the rain,
and he saw the great bay in one livid flash,
filled with galleys at anchor and the little
schooners of the fishing fleet. Beyond the
wharfs, the land climbed steeply toward
the sky, and he saw the dark mass of the
town reaching up to the citadel on the
hilltop. Dark — dark! Hardly a light
showed in the gloom.

What in the name of Shantuzik was up?
The waterfront, at least, should have been
alive with torches and music and bawdy
merriment. And the newly installed .street
lights should have been twinkling along
the main avenues leading up to the castle.
Instead Krakenau lay crouched in night,
and —

He scowled, and drove the light vessel
shoreward with rhythmic sweeps of the
long oar. Uneasiness prickled along his
spine. It wasn’t right. He’d only been gone
a few days. What had happened in the

The strangest space-castaways of all!
The Terrans left their great interstel-
lar ship unmanned in a tight orbit
around Khazak — descended, all of
them, in a lifeboat to investigate that
weird, Iron-Age world — and the life-
boat cracked up!

meantime ?

When he reached the pier, he made fast
with a quietness unusual to him. Maybe
he was being overcautious. Maybe it was
only that the king had died or some other
reason for restrained conduct had arisen.
But a man didn’t spend years warring
among the pirates of the outer islands and
the neighboring kingdoms around Kra-
kenau without learning to be careful.

He ducked under the awning in the
bows which was the boat’s only shelter,
and got a towel from the sea chest and
rubbed his rain-wet body dry. He’d only
been wearing a tattered pair of breeches,
and the water ran along his ribs and down
his flanks. Then he shrugged on a tunic,
and a coat of ring-mail over that. A flat-
bladed sword at his side and a helmet over
his long yellow hair completed his outfit.
He felt secure now, and jumped up to the
pier.

For a moment he stood in thought. The
steady rain washed down over his leather
cape, blurring vision a few meters away,
and only the intermittent flicker of light-
ning broke the darkness. Where to go?
His father’s house was the logical place,
perhaps. But the Masefield dwelling was
a little closer to here, and Ellen

He grinned and set out at a long stride.
Masefield’s be it.

PLANET STORIES

68

The street onto which he turned opened
before him like a tunnel of night. The high
steep-roofed houses lay dark on either side,
walling it in, and the fluoroglobes were
unlit. When the lightning blinked, the wet
cobblestones gleamed ; otherwise there was
only darkness and rain.

He passed one of the twisting alleys, and
glanced at it with automatic caution. The
next instant he had thrown himself to the
ground, and the javelin whipped through
the place where his belly had been.

He rolled over and bounded to his feet,
crouched low, the sword whining out of
its scabbard into his hand. Four Khazaki
sprang from the alley and darted at him.

Dougald Anson grunted, backed up
against a wall. The natives were armed and
mailed, they were warriors, and they had
all the unhuman swiftness of their species.
Four of them !

The leading attacker met his sword in a
clang of steel. Dougald let him come lung-
ing in, took the cut on his mailed ribs, and
swept his own weapon murderously out.
Faster than a man could think, the Kha-
zaki had his own blade up to parry the
sweeping blow. But he wasn’t quite fast
enough ; he met it at an awkward angle
and the Terrestrial’s sheer power sent the
sword spinning from his hand. The hand
went too, a fractional second later, and he
screamed and fell back and away.

The others were upon Anson. For mo-
ments it was parry and slash, three against
one, with no time to feel afraid or notice
the cuts in his arms and legs. A remote
part of his brain told him bleakly: This
is all. You're finished. No lone Earthling
ever stood up long to more than two Kha-
zaki. But he hardly noticed.

Suddenly there were only two in front
of him. He darted forth from the wall, his
sword crashing down with all the power of
his huge body behind it. The warrior tried
to skip aside — too late. The tremendous
blow smashed his own parry down and
sang in his skullbones.

And the last of the attackers died. He
tumbled over beside the second, and each
of them had a feathered shaft between his
ribs.

The bowman came loping through the
rain. He paused, in typical Khazak fash-
ion, to slit the throat of the wounded
being, and then came up to where Dougald

Anson stood panting.

The human strained through the rainy
dark. Lightning glimmered in the sky, and
he recognized the newcomer. “Janazik!”
“And Anson,’’ nodded the Khazaki. His
sharp white teeth gleamed in his shadowed
face. “You seem to have met a warm wet-
come.”

“Too warm. But — thanks!” Anson bent
over the nearest of the corpses, and only
now did the realization penetrate his brain.
They all wore black mail of a certain pat-
tern, spiked helmets, red cloaks — Gods of'
Gorzak! They were all royal guardsmen!

H E LOOKED UP to the dark form of
Janazik, and his lean face was sud-
denly tight. “What is this?” he asked
slowly. “I thought maybe bandits or some
enemy state had managed to enter the
city ”

“That would be hard to do, now that we
have the guns,” said Janazik. “No, these
are within our own walls. If you’ll look
closely, you’ll see they wear a gold-colored
brassard.”

“Prince Volakech — but he ”

“There’s more to this than Volakech,
and more than a question of the throne,”
said Janazik. Then suddenly, urgently:
“But we can’t stay here to talk. They’re
patrolling the streets, it’s dangerous to be
abroad. Let’s get to shelter.”

“What’s happened ?” Anson got up, tow-
ering over the native by a good quarter
meter, his voice suddenly rough. “What
happened? How is everyone?”

“Not well. Come on, now.”

“Ellen? Masefield Ellen?”

“I don’t know. Nobody knows. Now
come on!”

They slipped into the alley. Anson was
blind in the gloom, and Janazik’s slim six-
fingered hand took his to guide him. The
Khazaki were smaller than Terrestrials and
lacked the sheer strength and endurance
which Earth’s higher gravity gave; but
they could move like the wind, they had
an utter grace and balance beside which
humans were clumsy cattle, and they saw
in the dark.

Dougald Anson’s mind whirred in des-
perate speculation. If Volakech had gotten
enough guardsmen and soldiers on his side
to swing a palace revolution, it was bad.
But matters looked worse than that, Why

STAR

should Volakech’s men have assaulted a
human? Why should Janazik have to sneak
him into a hiding place? How had the rev-
olutionists gotten control in the first place,
against King Aligan’s new weapons ? What
powers did they have now?

What had become of the human com-
munity in Krakenau? What of his father,
his brother and sisters, his friends? What
of Masefield Ellen? What of Ellen?

He grew aware that Janazik had halted.
They were in an evil-smelling, refuse-lit-
tered courtyard, surrounded by tumble-
down structures, dark and silent as the rest
of the city. Anson realized that all Kra-
lcenau was blacked out. In such times of
danger, the old Khazaki clandom reas-
serted itself. Families barricaded themselves
in their dwellings, prepared to fight all
comers till the danger was past. The city
was awake, yes — it was crouched in breath-
less tension all around him — but not a
light showed, not a hand stirred, not a
voice spoke. They were all waiting.

Janazik crouched at the base of one of
the old buildings and lifted a trapdoor.
Light gleamed dimly up from a cellar. He
dropped lightly down and Anson followed,
closing the door behind him.

There was only one smoky lamp in the
dank gloom. Shadows were thick and huge
around the guttering wick. The red flame
picked out faces, shimmered off cold steel,
and lost itself in darkness.

Anson’s eyes scanned the faces. Half a
dozen humans: Chiang Chung-Chen, Du-
Frere Marie, Gonzales Alonzo and his
wife Nora who was Anson’s sister, Dou-
gald Joan, Masefield Philip — No sign of
Ellen.

“Anse ! Anse !” The voices almost sobbed
out of the dim-lit hollowness. Joan and
Nora sprang forward as if to touch their
'brother, make sure he was alive and no
vision of the night, but Janazik waved
them back with his sword.

“No noise,” hissed the Khazaki’s fierce
whisper. “No noise, by all the thirteen
hells! Volakech’s burats are all over the
city. If a patrol finds us ”

“Ellen !” Anson’s blue eyes searched
for Masefield Philip, crouched near the
lamp. “Where’s your sister, ’Phil?”

“I don’t know,” whispered the boy.
“We’re all who seem to’ve escaped. They
may have caught her — I don’t know ”

SHIP 69

“Father.” Joan’s voice caught with a
dry sob. “Anse, Father and Jamie are
dead. The rebels killed them.”

For a moment, Anson couldn’t grasp
the* reality of that. It just wasn’t possible
that his big laughing father and young
Jamie-the-brat should be killed — no!

But

Pie looked up, and then looked away.
When he turned back to face them, his
visage had gone hard and expressionless,
and only the white-knuckled grip on his
sword showed he was not a stranger.

“All right,” he said slowly, very slowly
and steadily. “All right. Give me the story.
What is it? What’s happened in Kra-
kenau ?”

II

J ANAZIK PADDED AROUND TO
stand before him. He was not the only
Khazaki in the cellar; there were a good
dozen others. Mostly they were young
males, and Anse recognized them. Bolazan,
Pragakech, Slavatozik — he’d played with
them as a child, he’d fared out with them
as a youth and a man to the wars, to storm
the high citadel of Zarganau and smite the
warriors of Volgazan and pirate the com-
merce of the outer islands. They were good
comrades, yes. But Father and Jamie were
dead. Ellen, Ellen was vanished. Only
a fragment of the human community re-
mained ; his world had suddenly come
down in ruin about him.

Well — his old bleak resolution came
back to him, and he met the yellow slit-
pupilled gaze of Janazik with a challenging
stare.

They were a strange contrast, these two,
for all that they had fought shoulder to
shoulder halfway round the planet, had
sung and played and roistered from Kra-
kenau to Gorgazan. Comrades in arms,
blood brothers maybe, but neither was hu-
man from the viewpoint of the other.

Dougald Anson was big even for a Ter-
restrial ; his tawny head rode at full two
meters and his wide shoulders strained the
chain mail he wore. He was young, but his
face had had the youth burned out of it by
strange suns and wild winds around the
world, was lean and brown and marked
with an old scar across the forehead. His
eyes were almost intolerably bright and

70 PLANE T

direct in their blue stare, the eyes of a bird
of prey.

The Khazaki was humanoid, to be sure
— shorter than the Terrestrial average, but
slim and lithe. Soft golden fur covered
his sinewy body, and a slender tail
switched restlessly against his legs. His
head was the least human part of him,
with its sloping forehead, narrow chin, and
blunt-muzzled face. The long whiskers
around his mouth and above the amber
cat-eyes twitched continuously, sensitive
to minute shifts in air currents and tem-
perature. Along the top of !iis skull, the
fur grew up in a cockatoo plume that
swept back down his neck, a secondary
sexual characteristic that females lacked.

Janazik was something of a dandy, and
even now he wore the baggy silk-like
trousers, long red sash, and elaborately em-
broidered blouse and vest of a Krakenaui
noble. It was woefully muddy, but he man-
aged to retain an air of fastidious ele-
gance. The bow and quiver across his
bade, the sword and dirk at his side,
somehow looked purely ornamental when
he wore them.

He was almost dwarfed by Anse’s huge-
thewed height. But old Chiang Chung-
Chen noticed, not for the first time, that
the human wore clothing and carried wea-
pons of Khazaki pattern, and that the
harsh syllables of Krakenaui came more
easily to his lips than the Terrestrial
of his fathers. And the old man nodded,
gravely and a little wearily.

Janazik spoke rapidly: “Volakech must
have been plotting his return from exile
a long time. He managed to raise a small
army of pirates, mercenaries, and out-
lawed Krakenaui, and he made bargains
with groups within the city. Two days ago,
certain of the guards seized the new guns
and let Volakech and his men in. Others
revolted within the town. I think King
Aligan was killed ; at least I’ve seen or
heard nothing of him since. There’s been
some fighting between rebels and loyalists
but the rebels got all the Earth-weapons
when they captured the royal arsenal and
since then they’ve just about crushed re-
sistance. Loyalists who could, fled the city.
The rest are in hiding. Volakech is king.”

“But — why us? The Terrestrials — what
have we to do with — ”

Janazik’s yellow eyes blazed at him.

STORIES

“You aren’t stupid, blood-brother. Think !”

After a moment Anse nodded bleakly.
“The Star Ship ”

“Of course! Volakech has seized the
rocket boat. No Terrestrial in his right mind
would show him how to use it, so he had
to capture someone who understood its
operation and force them to take him out
to the Star Ship. Old Masefield Henry was
killed resisting arrest — you know how
bloody guardsmen are, in spite of orders to
take someone alive. Volakech ordered the
arrest of all Terrestrials then. A few sur-
rendered to him, a few were killed resist-
ing, most were captured by force. As far
as we know, this group is all which es-
caped.”

“Then Ellen ?”

“That’s the weird thing. I don’t believe
she has been caught. Volakech’s men are
still scouring the city for ‘an Earthling
woman’ as the orders read. And who could
it be but Ellen? No other woman repre-
sents any danger or any desirable capture
to Volakech.”

“Ellen understands astrogation,” said
Anse slowly. “She learned it from her
grandfather.”

“Yes. And now that he is dead, she is
the only human — the only being on this
planet — who can get that rocket up to the
Star Ship. And Masefield Carson knows
it.”

“Carson ? Ellen’s older brother ? What — ”

Janazik’s voice was cold as Winter:
“Masefield Carson was with Volakech. He
led the rebels inside the city. Now he’s the
new king’s lieutenant.”

“Carson! No!”

“Carson — yes!” Janazik’s smile was
without mirth or pity. His eyes sought out
Philip, huddled miserably beside the lamp.
“Isn’t that the truth?”

T HE BOY NODDED, too choked
with his own unhappiness to cry.
“Carse always was a friend of Volakech,
before King Aligan outlawed him,” he
mumbled. “And he always said how it was
a shame, and how Volakech would know
better what to do with the Star Ship than
anyone now. Then — that night — ” His
voice trailed off, he sat dumbly staring into
the flame.

“Carson led the rebel guardsmen in their
seizure of the city guns,” said Janazik.

STAR

“He also rode to the Masefield house at the
head of a troop of them and called on his
people to surrender on promise of good
treatment. Joe and the mother did, and I
suppose they’re held somewhere in the cita-
del now. Phil and Ellen happened to be out
at the time. When Phil heard of the up-
rising, he was afraid to give himself up,
in spite of the heralds that went about
promising safety to those who did. He
heard how the rebels had been killing his
friends. He went to Slavatozik here, whom
he could trust, and later they got in touch
with me. I’d used this hiding place before,
nd gathered all the fugitives I could find
here.” Janazik shrugged, a sinuous un-
human gesture. “Since then I’ve seen
Carse, at a distance, riding around like
a prince of the blood, with a troop of his
own personal guardsmen. I suspect he
really runs things now. Volakech wants
power, but only Carse can show him how
to get it.”

“And Ellen ?”

“No sign of her. But as I said, I think
she’s in hiding somewhere, or the guards
wouldn’t be out looking for a woman. She
wouldn’t give herself up.”

“Not Ellen.” A grim pride lifted Anse’s
head.

“Remains the problem of finding her be-
fore they do,” said Gonzales Alonzo. “If
they catch her and make her plot an orbit
for the rocket, they’ll have the Star Ship —
which means power over the whole planet.”

“Not that I care who’s king,” growled
Pragakech. “But you know that Mase-
field Carson never did want to use the ship
to get out to the stars. And I want
to see those other worlds before I die.”

“To the thirteenth hell with the other
worlds,” snarled Bolazan. “Aligan was my
king, and it’s for me to avenge him and
put his rightful heir on the throne.”

“We all have our motives for wanting
the blood of Volakech and Carson,” said
Janazik. “Never mind that now ; the im-
portant thing is how to get at their livers.
We’re few, Anse. Here are all the free hu-
mans we know of, except Masefield Ellen.
There can’t be more than two or three at
large, and perhaps ten dead. That means
the enemy holds almost a hundred humans
captive. Discounting children and others
who are ignorant of Terrestrial science, it
still means they’ll be able to operate the

SHIP 71

guns, the steel mill, the atomic-power plant
— all the new machines except the rocket
boat, and they only need Ellen for that.”
Anse nodded, slowly. “What is our
strength?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Not much. I know where
about a hundred Khazaki warriors are hid-
ing, ready to follow us whenever we call
on them, and there will be many more sit-
ting at home now who’ll rise if someone
else takes the lead. But the enemy has all
the guns. It would be suicide.”

“What about the Khazaki who fled?”
Usually, in one of the planet’s violent
changes of governments, the refugees were
powerful nobles who would be slain as a
safety measure if they stayed at home but
who could, in exile, raise strong forces for
a comeback. Such a one had Volakech. him-
self been, barely escaping with his life
after his disastrous attempt to seize the
throne a few years back.

“Don’t be more stupid than you can
help,” snorted Janazik. “By the time they
can have rallied enough to do any good,
Volakech and Carson will have the Star
Ship, one way or another, and then the
whole world is at their mercy.”

“That means we have to strike back
somehow — quickly !” Anse stood for a mo-
ment in thought.

The habits of his warring, wandering
years were coming back to him. He had
faced death and despair before, and with
strength and cunning and bluff and sheer
luck had come through alive. This was
another problem, more desperate and more
urgent, but still another problem.

No — there was more to it than that.

H IS FACE GREW BLEAK, and it
was as if a coldness touched his
heart. Carson was Ellen’s older brother,
and even if they had quarreled from time
to time he knew she had always felt deeply
bound to him. Carse is everything I never
was. He stayed in Krakenau and studied
and became an educated man and a skilled
engineer while I went hallooing over the
world. He’s brave and a good fighter — so
am I — but he’s so much more than that. I
imagine it zoos his example that made Ellen
learn the astrogation only her grandfather
knezv.

And now I’m back from roaming and
roznng with Janazik, and I’m trying hard

72 PLANE T

to settle dozvn and learn something so that
I won't be just a barbarian, a wild Khazaki
in human skin, when zve go out to the
ciznlizaticn of the stars. So that I won't
be too utterly ashamed to ask Ellen to
marry me. And it was all going pretty
well until new.

But now — I’m fighting her brother —
Well — he pushed the thought out of his
brain. After all, apparently she was in
opposition to Carse’s plans too.

“I wonder why they tried to kill me?”
he asked aloud, more to fill in the time
while he thought than out of curiosity.

“You’d be of no use to Carson, having
no technical education,” said Janazik,
“while your knowledge of fighting and
your connections with warlike groups make
you dangerous to him. Also, I don’t think
he ever liked your paying attention to El-
len.”

“No — lie always said I was a waster.
Called me a — an absorbed Khazaki. I’d’ve
split his skull if he hadn’t been Ellen’s
brother — No matter now. We’ve more im-
portant things to talk over.”

Haz>e zve, nozv? he thought sickly. C ar-
son must know Ellen zvell, better than I
do. If he thinks he can have me killed
without making her hate him, then — maybe
I never had any chance with her then —
“Mow’d you happen by ?” he asked tone-
lessly.

“I’ve been out from time to time, looking
for Ellen and killing guardsmen whenever
I could catch them alone.” Janazik’s white
fangs gleamed in a carnivore’s smile. “And,
of course, I expected you back from your
fishing trip about this time, and watched
for you lest you blunder into their hands.”
Arise began to pace the floor, back and
forth, his head bent to avoid the basement
rafters. If Carson was in control, and out
to kill him . . . There was more to it than
that, of course. The whole future of the
planet Khazak, perhaps of the fabulous
Galactic civilization itself, was balanced
on the edge of a sword. If Volakech or a
descendant of his took the warlike race out
among the stars, with a high level of in-
dustry to back a scheme of conquest

But it didn’t matter. All the universe
didn’t matter. There was only Ellen, and
his own dead kin, and himself.

A man’s heart can only hold so much.
Janazik stood quietly back, watching his

STORIES

friend’s restless prowling. He had seen
that pacing before, and he knew that some
scheme would come out of it, crazy and
reckless and desperate, with his own cool
unhuman intelligence to temper it and
make it workable. He and Anse made a
good team. They made the best damned
fighting team Khazak had ever seen.

Presently the human lifted his head.
There was silence in the hiding place, thick
and taut, so that they could hear their
own breathing and the steady drum of
rain on the trapdoor.

“I have an idea,” said Anse.

Ill

T he long night wore on.

Janazik had sent most of his Kha-
zaki out to alert the other loyalists in their
hiding places, but only they had a chance
of slipping unobserved past the enemy
patrols. Humans, obviously alien, slow-
footed and clumsy beside the flitting sha-
dows of Khazak, would never get far.
They had to wait.

Anse was glad of the opportunity for
conference with Janazik, planning the as-
sault on the citadel. Neither of them was
very familiar with the layout, but Alonzo,
as an engineer on the rocket buildiug pro-
ject, and old Chiang had been there often
enough to know it intimately.

It was impossible that a few hundred
warriors armed with the primitive weapons
of Khazak could take the stronghold. Its
walls were manned by more fighters than
that, and there were the terrible Earth-
type guns as well. Alonzo had a blaster
with a couple of charges, but otherwise
there was nothing modern in the loyalist
force.

But still that futile assault was neces-
sary —

“It’s taking a desperate chance,” said
Dougald Joan. She was young yet, hardly
out of girlhood, but her voice had an in-
domitable ring. The true warriors among
the five Earthling families were all Dou-
galds thought Janazik. “Suppose Ellen
doesn’t come out of hiding? Suppose she’s
dead or — or captured already, in spite of
what we think.”

“We’ll just have to try and destroy the
rocket then,” said Alonzo. “Certainly we
can’t let Volakech get to the Star Ship.”

STAR

He sighed, heavily. “And the labor of an-
other generation will be gone.”

“It wouldn’t take us long to build an-
other boat,” said his wife. “We know how,
now, and we have the industry to do it.”
“There are only a few who really know
how to handle and build the Terrestrial
machines, and most of them are in the
enemy’s hands,” reminded old Chiang.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you much about
atomic engines, even though I was on the
Star Ship herself once. If those few are
killed, we may never be able to duplicate
our efforts. What Terrestrials survive will
sink back into barbarism, become simply
another part of Khazaki culture.”

“I don’t know ” said Nora.

“I know, because I’ve seen it happen,”
insisted Chiang. “In the fifty years since
we were marooned here, two generations
have been born on Khazak. They’ve grown
up among Khazaki, played with native
children, worked and fought with Khazaki
natives, adopted the dress and speech and
whole outlook of Krakenau. Only a few in
this third generation have consciously tried
to remain — Terrestrial. I must admit that
Masefield Carson is one such. Ellen is an-
other. But few others.”

“Would you have us wall ourselves out
from the world?” asked Anse with a brid-
ling anger.

“No. I don’t see how the situation could
be helped. We are a minority in an alien
culture with which we’ve had to cooperate.
It’s only natural that we’d be more assimi-
lated than assimilating. Even at that, we’ve
wrought immense changes.”

J ANAZIK NODDED. The stranded
Terrestrials had found themselves in
an early Iron Age civilization of city-
states, among a race naturally violent and
predatory. For their own survival, they
had had to league forces with the state
in which they found themselves — Kra-
kenau, as it happened. Before they could
build the industry they needed, they had
to have some security — which meant that
they must teach the Krakenaui military
principles and means of making new wea-
pons which would make them superior to
their neighbors. After that — well, it took
an immense technology to build even a
small spaceship. The superalloys which
could stand the combustion of rocket fuel

SHIP 73

required unheard-of elements such as man-
ganese and chromium, which required
means of mining and refining them, which
required a considerable chemical plant,
which required — How far down do you
have to start? And there were a hundred
or a thousand other requirements of equal
importance and difficulty.

Besides, the Terrestrials had had to
learn much from scratch themselves. None
of them had ever built a rocketship, had
ever seen one in action even. It was cen-
turies obsolete in Galactic civilization. But
gravity drives were out of the question.
So — they’d had to design the ship from the
ground up. Which meant years of pains-
taking research . . . and only a few in-
terested humans and Khazaki to do it. The
rest were too busy with their own affairs
in the brawling barbaric culture.

Ten years ago, the first spaceboat had
blasted off toward the Star Ship — and ex-
ploded in mid-acceleration. More design-
ing, more testing, more slow building—
and now the second one lay ready. Perhaps
it could reach the Star Ship.

The Star Ship — faster than light,
weightless when it chose to be for all its
enormous mass, armed with atomic guns
that could blast a city to superheated va-
por. Whoever controlled that ship could
get to Galactic stars in a matter of weeks.
Or could rule all Khazaki if he chose.

No wonder Carson and Volakech had
struck now, before the rocket boat was
launched. When they had the ship —

But only Ellen knew the figures of its
orbit and the complicated calculations by
which the boat would plot a course to get
there. A bold warrior might make a try at
reaching the ship by seat-of-the-pants pi-
loting, but he wouldn’t have much chance
of making it. So Ellen, and the rocket boat,
were the fulcrum of the future.

“Strange,” mused Chiang. “Strange that
we should have had that accident . . .”

. The y heard the story a hundred
times before, but they gathered around to
listen ; there was nothing else to do while
the slow hours dragged on.

“We were ten, all told, five men and
their wives. Exploratory expeditions are
often out for years at a time, so the Ser-
vice makes it a policy to man the ships
with married couples. It’s hard for a
Khazaki to appreciate the absolute equality

74 PLANET

between the sexes which human civiliza-
tion has achieved. It’s due to the advanced
technology, of course, and we’re losing it
as we go back to barbarism — ”

Anse felt a small hand laid on his arm.
He looked down into the dark eyes of Du-
Frere Marie. She was a pretty girl, a little
younger than he, and until he’d really no-
ticed Ellen he’d been paying her some at-
tention.

“I don’t care about equality,” she whis-
pered. “A woman shouldn’t try to be a
man. I’d want only to cook and keep house
for my man, and bear his children.”

It was, Anse realized, a typical Khazaki
attitude. But — he remembered with a sud-
den pity that Carson had been courting
Marie. “This is pretty tough on you,” he
muttered. “I’ll try to see that Carse is
saved ... If we win,” he added wryly.

“Him? I don’t care about that Masefield.
Let them hang him. But Anse — be care-
ful—”

H E LOOKED AWAY, his face hot in
the gloom, realizing suddenly why
Masefield Carson hated him. Briefly, he
wished he hadn’t had such consistent luck
with women. But the accident that there
was a preponderance of females in the sec-
ond and third generations of Khazaki hu-
mans had made it more or less inevitable,
and he — well, he was only human. There’d
been Earthling girls; and not a few Kha-
zaki women had been intrigued by the big
Terrestrial. Yes, I was lucky, he thought
bitterly. Lucky in all except the one that
mattered.

“ — we’d been a few weeks out of Avan-
dar — it was an obscure outpost then,
though I imagine it’s grown since — when
we detected this Sol-type sun. Seeing that
there was an Earth-like planet, we decided
to investigate. And since we were all tired
of being cooped in the ship, and telescopes
showed that any natives which might exist
would be too primitive to endanger us,
we all went down in the lifeboat.

“And the one-in-a-billion chance hap-
pened . . . the atomic converters went out
of control and we barely escaped from the
boat before it was utterly consumed. We
were stranded on an alien planet, with
nothing but our clothes and a few hand
weapons — and with our ship that would go
faster than light circling in its orbit not ten

STORIES

thousand kilometers above us !

“No chance of rescue. There are just
too many suns for the Galactic Coordina-
tors to hope to find a ship that doesn’t
come back. Expansion into this region of
space wasn’t scheduled for another two
centuries. So there we were, and until we
could build a boat which would take us
back to our ship — there we stayed !

“And it’s taken us fifty years so far . . .”
Pragakech came in with the rain glis-
tening on his fur and running in small
puddles about his padding feet. “We’re
ready,” he said. “Every warrior whose hid-
ing place we knew has been contacted.”
“Then we might as well go.” Janazik
got up and stretched luxuriously. His eyes
were like molten gold in the murky light.

“So soon?” MLarie held Anse back with
anxious hands. “This same night?”

“The sooner the better,” Anse said
grimly. “Every day that goes by, more
of our friends will be found out and killed,
more places will be searched for Ellen,
Volakech’s grip on the city will grow
stronger.” He put the spiked helmet back
on his head, and buckled the sword about
his mailed waist. “Come on, Janazik. The
rest stay here and wait for word. If we’re
utterly defeated, such of us as survive will
manage to get back and lead you out of
Krakenau — somehow.”

Marie started to say something, then
shook her head as if the words hurt her
throat and drew Anse’s face down to hers.
“Goodbye, then,” she whispered. “Goodbye,
and the gods be with you.”

He kissed her more awkwardly than was
his wont, feeling himself a thorough scoun-
drel. Then he followed Pragakech and
Janazik out the trapdoor.

IV

T HE COURTYARD was filled with
Khazaki warriors, standing silently
in the slow heavy rain. It was the dark-
ness of early morning, and only an occa-
sional wan lightning flash, gleaming on
spears and axes, broke the chill gloom.
Anse was aware of softly-moving supple
bodies pressing around him, of night-seeing
eyes watching him with an impassive stare.
It was he and Janazik who had the plan,
and who had the most experience in war-
fare, and the rest looked to them for lead-

STAR

ership. It was not easy to stand under that
cool, judging scrutiny, and Anse strode
forth into the street with a feeling of re-
lief at the prospect of action.

As they moved toward the castle, along
the narrow cobbled lanes winding up the
hills, their army grew. Warriors came lop-
ing from alleys, came slipping out of the
dark barricaded houses, seemed to rise out
of the rainy night around them. All Kra-
kenau was abroad, it seemed, but quietly,
quietly.

And throughout the town other such
forces were on the move, gathering under
the lead of anyone who could be trusted,
converging on the citadel and the rocket-
ship it guarded.

Tonight — victory, or destruction of the
boat and a drawn battle . . . or repulsion
and ultimate shattering defeat. The gods
are abroad tonight.

Somewhere, faint and far through the
dull washing of rain, a trumpet blew a
harsh challenge, once and again. After it
came a distance-muted shouting of voices
and a clattering of swords.

“One of our bands has come across a
patrol,” said Janazik unnecessarily. “Now
all hell will be loose in Krakenau. Come
on!”

They broke into a trot up the hill.
Rounding a sharp turn in the street, they
saw a close-ranked mass of warriors with
spears aloft.

Guardsmen !

The two forces let out a simultaneous
yell and charged at each other in the dis-
orderly Khazaki fashion. It was beginning
to lighten just a little; Anse could make
out enough for purposes of battle. Hai-ah
— here we go!

He smashed into a leading guard, who
stabbed at him with his long pike. The edge
grazed off Anse’s heavy chain mail as the
Earthling chopped out with his sword. He
knocked the shaft aside and thrust in,
hewing at the Khazaki’s neck. The guard
intercepted the blow with his shield, and
suddenly rammed it forward. The murder-
ous spike on its boss thudded against the
Terrestrial’s broad chest and the linked
rings gave under that blow — just a little,
just enough to draw blood. Anse roared
and chopped down across the other’s right
arm. The Khazaki howled his pain and
Stumbled back.

SHIP 75

Another was on the Earthling like a
spitting cat. Swords hummed and clashed
together. Leaping and dodging, the Kha-
zaki lashed out with a blade like a flickering
flame, and none of Anse’s blows could land
on him.

The Khazaki leaped in suddenly, his
edge reaching for the human’s unprotected
throat. Anse parried with his sword, while
his left fist shot out like an iron cannon-
ball. It hit the native full in the face, with
a crunch of splintering bones. The guard’s
head snapped back and he fell to the blood-
running street.

Janazik was fighting two at once, his
sword never resting. He leaped and danced
like the shadow of a flame in the wind, and
he was laughing — laughing! Anse hewed
out, and one of the foemen’s heads sprang
from its neck. Janazik darted in, there was
a blur of steel, and the other guardsman
toppled.

Axe and sword! Spear and dagger and
flying arrows! The fight rolled back and
forth between the darkling walls of houses.
It grew with time ; Volakech’s patrols were
drawn by the noise, loyalists crouched in
hiding heard of the attack and sped to join
it. Anse and Janazik fought side by side,
human brawn and Khazaki swiftness, and
the corpses were heaped where they went.

A pike raked Anse’s hand. He dropped
his sword and the enemy leaped in with
drawn knife. Anse did not reach for his
own dirk — no human had a chance in a
knife fight with a Khazaki — but his arms
snaked out, his hands closed on the native’s
waist, and he lifted the enemy up and
hurled him against another. They both
went down in a crash of denting armor and
snapping bones. Anse roared his war-cry
and picked up his sword again.

J ANAZIK LEAPED and darted and
fenced, grinning as he fought, demon-
lights in his yellow eyes. A spear was
hurled at him. He picked it out of the
air, one-handed, and threw it back, even
as he fought another guardsman. The rebel
took advantage of it to get in under Jan-
azik’s guard. Swifter than thought, the
warrior’s dagger was in his left hand — and
into the rebel's throat.

Back and forth the battle swayed, roar-
ing, trampling, and the rain mingled with
blood between the cobblestones. Thunder of

76 PLANET

weapons, shrieking of wounded, shouting
of challenges — lightning dancing overhead !

Suddenly it was over.

Anse looked up from his last victim and
saw that the confusion no longer snarled
around him. The street was heaped with
dead and wounded, and a few individual
battles were still going on. But the surviv-
ing guardsmen were in full flight, and the
victorious warriors were shouting their
triumph.

'‘That was a fight!” panted Janazik. He
quivered with feral eagerness. “Now on to
the castle!”

“I think,” said Slavatozik thoughtfully,
“that this was the decisive struggle as far
as the city is concerned. Look at how
many were involved. Almost all the patrols
must have come here — and now they’re
beaten. We hold the city !”

“Not much good to us while Volakech is
in the castle,” said Anse. “He need only
sally forth with the Earth-weapons — ” He
leaned on his sword, gasping great lung-
fuls of the cool wet air into him. “But
where’s Ellen?”

“We’ve had heralds out shouting for
her, as you suggested,” said Slavatozik.
“Now that the city is in our control, she
should come out. If not ”

“ — then I know how to blow up the
boat,” said Gonzales Alonzo bleakly. “If
we can get inside the citadel to it.”

The loyalists were reassembling their
forces. Warriors moved over the scene of
battle, plundering dead guardsmen, cutting
the throats of wounded enemies and badly
mutilated friends. It was a small army that
was crowding around Anse’s tall form.

His worried eyes probed into the dull
gray light of the rainy dawn. Of a sudden,
he stiffened and peered more closely.
Someone was coming down the street,
thrusting through the assembled warriors.
Someone — someone — he knew that bright
bronze hair . . .

Ellen.

He stood waiting, letting her come up
to him, and his eyes were hungry. She
was tall and full-bodied and supple, grace-
ful almost as a Khazaki, and her wide-
set eyes were calm and gray under a broad
clear forehead and there was a dusting
of freckles over her straight nose and her
mouth was wide and strong and generous
and —

STORIES

“Ellen,” he said wonderingly. “Ellen.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What have you planned?”

No question of how he was, no look
at the blood trickling along his sides and
splashed over his face and arms — well —
“Where were you?” he asked, and cursed
himself for not being able to think of a
better greeting.

“I hid with the family of Azakhagar,”
she said. “I lay in their loft when the
patrolmen came searching for me. Then
I heard your heralds going through the
streets, calling on me to come out in your
name. So I came.”

“How did you know it wasn’t a trick of
Volakech’s?” asked someone.

“I told the heralds to use my name
and add after it — well — something that
only she and I knew,” said Anse uncom-
fortably.

J ANAZIK remained impassive, but he
recalled that the phrase had been
“Dougald Anson, who once told you some-
thing on a sunny day down by Zamanaui
River.” He could guess what the some-
thing had been. Well, it seemed to happen
to all Earthmen sooner or later, and it
meant the end of the old unregenerate
days. He sighed, a little wistfully.

“But what did you want me for?”
asked Ellen. She stood before Anse in
her short, close-fitting tunic, the raindrops
glittering in her heavy coppery hair, and he
thought wryly tliat the question was in
one sense superfluous. But in another
sense, and with time so desperately short —
“You’re the only one of us who can plot
a course for the rocket,” he said. “Alonzo
here, or almost anyone, should be able to
pilot it, but you’re the only one who can
take it to the Star Ship. So that, of
course, is why Carson and Volakech were
after you, and why we had to have you
too. If we can get into the citadel, capture
the rocket and get up to the Star Ship, it’ll
be easy to overthrow Volakech. But if he
gets there first, all Khazak couldn’t win
against him.”

She nodded, slowly and wearily. Her
gray eyes were haunted. “I wonder if it
matters who gets there,” she said. “I won-
der why we’re fighting and killing each
other. Over who shall sit on the throne of

STAR

an obscure city-state on an insignificant
planet? Over the exact disposition to be
made of one little spaceship? It isn’t worth
it.” She looked around at the sprawled
corpses, lying on the bloody cobblestones
with rain falling in their gaping mouths,
and shuddered. “It isn’t worth that.”
“There’s more to it than that,” said
Janazik bleakly. “Masefield Carson and
his friend — his puppet, I think — Volakech
would use the ship to bring all the world
under their rule. Then they would mold it
into a pattern suited for conquering a
small empire among the neighboring stars.”
“Volakech always talked that way, be-
fore his first revolution,” said Ellen. “And
Carse used to say — but that can’t be
right! He can’t have meant it. And even
if he did — what of it? Is it worth enough
for brothers to slay each other over?”
“Yes.” Janazik’s voice was pitiless.
“Shall the freemen of Khazak become the
regimented hordes of a tyrant ? Let all this
world be blown asunder first!”

“Shall the innocent folk of the other
stars become his victims?” urged Alonzo.
“Shall Khazak become a menace to the
Galaxy, one which must be destroyed —
or must itself destroy? Shall there be war
with — Earth herself?”

“To Shantuzik with that,” growled
Anse. “These are our enemies, to be
fought and beaten. Out there is the great
civilization of the Galaxy, and they would
keep us from it for generations yet, and
make it in the end our foe. And Volakech
is a murderer with no right to the throne
of Krakenau. I say let’s get at his liver!”
“Well — ” Ellen looked away. When
she turned back, there was torment in her
eyes, but her voice was low and steady:
“I’m with you in whatever you plan. But
on one condition. Carse is not to be
harmed.”

“Not harmed!” exploded Janazik. “Why,

that dirty traitor deserves ”

“He is still my brother,” said Ellen.
“When Volakech is beaten, he will not
be able to do any more harm, and he will
see that he was wrong.” Her eyes flashed
coldly. “Whoever hurts Carse will have
me for blood-enemy !”

“As you will,” shrugged Anse, trying to
hide the pain in his heart. “But now . . .
Our plan is to storm the citadel. We can’t
hope to take it, but we’ll keep the gar-

SHiP 77

rison busy. Meanwhile a few of us break
in, get the rocket, and take it back out
here, where you will have an orbit
plotted — ”

“I can’t make one that quickly. And
who can pilot it well enough to land it here
without cracking it up?”

T HEY LOOKED at each other, and
then eyes turned to Gonzales Alonzo.
He smiled mirthlessly. “I can try,” he said.
“But I’m only an engineer; I never ima-
gined I’d have to fly the tiling. Chiang
Ching-Wei was supposed to be the pilot,
but he’s a prisoner now.”

“If we smash the rocket — well, then we
smash it,” said Anse heavily. “It’ll mean a
long and hard war against Volakech from
outside, and he’ll have all the advantages
of the new weapons. We may never over-
throw him before he gets another boat
built. Still — we’ll just have to try.”

Ellen said quietly: “I can pilot it.”
“You!”

“Of course. I’ve been working on the
second boat from the beginning. I know it
as well as anyone, every seam and rivet
and wiring diagram. I was aboard when
Chiang took her on a practice run only a
few days ago. I’ll fly it for you !”

“You can’t — we have to fight our way
into the castle itself, the very heart of
Volakech’s power — you’d be killed!”

“It’s the best chance. If you think we
can get in at all, I stand as good a chance
of living through it as anyone else.”
“She’s right,” said Janazik. “And while
we waste time here arguing, the citadel is
getting ready. Come on !”

Automatically, Anse broke into move-
ment, trotting along beside Janazik, and
the army formed its ranks and followed
them.

He had time for a few hurried words
with Ellen, whispered as they went up the
hill : “Stay close by me. There’ll lx? a small
group of us getting in, picked fighters, and
we’ll make a ring about you.”

“Of course,” she nodded. Her gray eyes
shone, and she was breathing quickly. “I
begin to see why you were a rover all
those years, Anse. It’s mad and desperate
and terrible — but before Cosmos, we’re
alive!”

“Most recruits are frightened green be-
fore their first battle,” he said. “You have

78 PLANET

a warrior’s heart, Ellen — ” He broke off,
hearing the banality of his own words.

“Listen, my dearest,” he said then,
quickly. “We may not come alive through
all this. But remember what I did say,
down by the river that day. I love you.”

She was silent. He went on, fumbling
for words: “You wouldn’t answer me
then ”

“I thought it was just your usual talk
to women.”

“It may have been — then,” he admitted.
“But it hasn’t been since, and it isn’t now.”
His sword-calloused hand found hers.
“Don’t forget, Ellen. I love you. I will
always love you.”

“Anse ” She turned toward him,

and he saw her eyes alight. “Anse ”

A bugle shrilled through the rain, high
and harsh ahead of them. Dimly, they
made out the monstrous bulk of the castle,
looming through the misty gray light, its
towers lost in the vague sky. Janazik’s
sword flashed from its sheath.

“The battle begins,” said a voice out of
the blurring rain.

Anse drew Ellen over against a wall and
kissed her. Her lips were cool and firm
under his, wet with rain; he would never
forget that kiss while life was in him.

They looked at each other for a moment
of wonder, and then broke apart and fol-
lowed Janazik.

V

T he loyalists charged in

a living wave that roared as it surfed
against the castle walls and spattered a
foam of blood and steel. From three sides
they came, weaving in and out of the
hailing arrows, lifting shields above them,
leaving their dead behind them.

The blaster cannon mounted on the walls
spouted flame and thunder. Warriors were
mowed down before that whirling white
fury, armor melted when the lightning-
like discharges played over it, but still the
assault went on with all the grim bitter
courage of the Khazaki race.

Old siege engines were appearing,
dragged out of storehouses and hiding
places where they had been kept against
such a day of need. Now the great cata-
pults and ballistae were mounted; stones
and fireballs and iron-headed bolts were

STORIES

raking the walls. A testudo moved awk-
wardly forth up the steep hill toward the
gates. It was blasted to flaming molten
ruin, but another got underneath the walls
and the crash of a battering ram came
from under its roof.

Shadowlike in the blinding rain, the war-
riors flitted up toward the walls. No spot
of cover was too small for one of those
ghostly shapes ; they seemed to carry their
own invisibility with them. Under the
walls — scaling ladders appearing as if out
of nowhere — up the walls and into the
castle !

The ladders were hurled down. The war-
riors who gained the walls were blasted by
cannon, cut down by superior numbersi,
lost in a swirl of battle and death. Boil-
ing water rained down over the walls on
those below, spears and arrows and the
roaring blaster bolts. But still they came.
Still the howling, screeching demons of
Krakenau came, and died, and came again.

Anse cursed, softly, luridly, pain croak-
ing in his voice: “We can’t be with them.
They’re being slaughtered and we can’t
be with them.”

“We’re needed worse here,” said Janazik
curtly. “If only Pragakech can maintain
the assault for an hour ”

He and Anse loped in the forefront.
Behind them came Gonzales, Ellen, and a
dozen picked young Khazaki. They wove
through a maze of alleys and streets and
deserted market squares, working around
behind the castle. The roar of battle came
to them out of the gray mist of rain;
otherwise there was only the padding and
splashing of their own feet, the breath
rasping harsh in their lungs, the faint
clank and jingle of their harness. All
Krakenau not at the storming of the cita-
del had withdrawn into the mysterious
shells of the houses, lay watching and
waiting and whetting knives in the dark.

The paths dipped steeply downward, un-
til, when they came around behind the
citadel and stood peering out of a tunnel-
like alley, there was a sheer cliff-face be-
fore them. On this side the castle was
impregnable. The only approach was a
knife-edged trail winding up the cliff, bare-
ly wide enough for one man at a time. At
its top, flush with the precipice edge, the
wall was built. Against this wall, com-
manding the trail, there had in the old days

STAR

been an archer post, but lately a cannon
had been mounted there.

Yet that very security, thought Anse,
might be a weakness. Except for that gun,
the approach wouldn’t be watched, es-
pecially with the fight going on elsewhere.
So—

“Give me your weapon, Alonzo,” said
Janazik.

“Here.” Gonzales handed him the blaster
pistol. “But it only has two charges left in
it.”

“That may be enough.” Janazik slipped it
under his cloak. Then he wound a gold
brassard about his arm and started up the
trail. A couple of his Khazaki came be-
hind them, then Anse, Ellen, and Alonzo,
and finally the rest of the warriors.

T HE TRAIL WAS STEEP and slip-
pery, water swirling down it, loose
rocks moving uneasily beneath the feet —
and it was a dizzying drop off the sheer
edge to the ground below. They wound
upward slowly, panting, cursing, wonder-
ing how much of a chance their desperate
scheme really had.

Ellen slipped a little. Anse reached back
and caught her hand. He smiled lop-sided-
ly. “Now I don’t want to let go,” he said.

“I wonder — ” Ellen looked away, then
back to him, and her eyes were wide and
puzzled. “I wonder if I want you to,
Anse.”

His heart seemed to jump up into his
throat, but he let her go and said wryly:
“I’m afraid I have to right now. But wait
till later.”

Up and up — Later! Will there ever be a
later ?

And if there is, what then? I’m still more
than half a Khazaki. Can we live together
in the great civilization I hardly compre-
hend?

It was simpler when Janazik and I were
warring oz’er the planet . . . Janazik! I
•wonder if two beings of the same race
could ever knozv as close a friendship as
that betzveen us two aliens ., We’ve fought
and laughed and sung together, we’ve saved
each other’s lives, sweated and suffered and
been afraid, together. We know each other
as we will never knozv any other being.

Well, it passes. We’ll always remain
close friends, I suppose. But the old com-
radeship — I’ll have to give that up.

SHIP 79

But Ellen —

Up and up—

Janazik whistled, long and loud, and
called: “Hail Volakech! Friends!”

He could dimly see the looming bulk of
the blaster cannon, crouched behind its
iron shield. Above it the walls of the
castle were high and (kirk and — empty.

The voice came from ahead of him,
taut with nervousness: “Who goes there?”

“A friend. I have a message for His
Highness.” Janazik moved forward almost
casually. His eyes gleamed with mirth. It
tickled his heart, this dicing with death.
Someday he’d overreach himself and that
would be the end, but until then he was
having fun.

“Advance ... No, no one else. Just
you alone.”

Janazik sauntered forward until he stood
only a meter from the blunt ugly muzzle.
He had his left arm out of his cloak, so
that the golden brassard shone in plain
view. Underneath, his right hand thumbed
the catch of Alonzo’s pistol.

“Who are you?” challenged the voice
from behind the shield.

“A messenger for His Highness from
his allies in Volgazan,” said Janazik. “See-
ing that there was still fighting going on, I
and my men decided to come in the back
way.”

“Well — I suppose I can let you in, under
guard. But your men will have to stay
out here.”

“Very well.” Janazik strolled over be-
hind the shield.

There were three warriors crouched
there, in front of a small door in the wall.
One of them was about to blow his
trumpet for a guard detail. The other
two poised their spears near Janazik’ s
throat. None of them thought that any-
one outside the citadel might possess an
Earth-weapon.

J ANAZIK SHOT right through his
cloak. In that narrow space, the raven-
ous discharge blinded and blistered him,
stung his face with flying particles of mol-
ten iron. The hammer-blow of concussion
sent him reeling back against the wall. His
cloak caught afire; he ripped it off and
flung it down on the three blackened
corpses before him.

Vision returned to his dazzled eyes.

8G PLANET

These Earth-weapons were hideous things,
he thought ; they made nothing of courage
or strength or even cunning. He wondered
what changes Galactic civilization would
bring to old Khazak, and didn’t think he’d
like most of them. Maybe Volakech was
right.

But Anse was his comrade and Aligan
had been his king. He whistled, and the
others came running up.

“Quick,” rasped Janazik. “The noise
may draw somebody — quick, inside!”

“Can’t we swing this lightning thrower
around and blast them?” wondered a
Khazaki.

“No, it’s fixed in place.” Anse threw
his brawny shoulders against the solid
mass of the door. It swung ponderously
back and they dashed through the tunnel
in the thick wall — out into the open court-
yard of the castle!

The noises of the fight rose high from
here, but there were only a few warriors
in sight, scurrying back and forth on their
errands without noticing the newcomers —
a fact which did not surprise Anse or
Janazik, who knew what vast confusion
a battle was. The human remembered the
layout now — the rocket w’ould be over by
the machine shops, near the donjon keep
—“This way!”

They trotted across the court, around
the gray stone bulk of the citadel’s build-
ings and towers, toward the long wooden
shed which housed the new machine shop.
The rain was beginning to slacken now,
and the sun was up behind its gray veil, so
that there was light shining through slant-
ing silver. Against the dark walls, the lean
torpedo shape of the rocket boat gleamed
like a polished spearhead.

“Now — ahead !” Janazik broke into a
run toward the boat, and they followed
him in a close ring about Ellen.

A band of fighters came around the cor-
ner of the machine shop, in front of the
rocket. The wet light shone off their
brassards. Janazik swore bitterly, and his
hand dropped to his sword.

One of the enemy warriors let out a yell.
“Earthlings — two — three of them ! Not
ours ”

The blaster crashed in Janazik’s hand,
and five dropped their charred bodies on
the ground. With a spine-shivering yell,
Janazik bounded forward, and after him

STORIES

came Anse, Alonzo, and a round dozen
of the fiercest fighters in Krakenau. The
blaster was exhausted now — but they had
their swords !

The leader of the enemy band was a
huge Khazaki, dark-furred and green-eyed.
His men were scattering in panic, but he
roared a bull-voiced command and they
rallied about him and stood befort the
rocket.

Volakech. By all the thirteen hells, Vola-
kech!

He must have been leading reinforce-
ments to a threatened point on the wall,
thought Anse in a fleeting moment, and
his sharp mind had instantly deduced that
the invaders were after the rocket — and
that they could have no more blaster
charges, or they would be using them. And
Volakech’s band was still larger than
theirs, and he had all the forces of the
citadel behind him if he could summon
them !

T HE TWO BANDS CRASHED to-
gether and steel began to fly. Anse
stood before Ellen and lashed out at a
spitting Khazaki who reached for his
belly with a sword. The enemy dodged past
his guard, drilled in close. Ellen shouted
and kicked at the native’s ankles. He
stumbled, dropping his defense, and Anse
clove his skull.

Volakech roared. He swung a huge
battle axe, and its shock and thunder rose
high over the swaying tide of battle. Two
of Janazik’s men leaped at him. He swept
the axe in a terrible arc and the spike
cracked one pate and the edge split the
other’s face open. Alonzo sprang at him
with furious courage, wielding a sword.
Volakech knocked it spinning -from his
hand, but, before he could kill the en-
gineer, Anse was on him.

They traded blows in a clamor of steel.
Axe and sword clashed together, sheared
along chain mail and rang on helmets. It
was a blur of rake and slash and parry,
with Volakech grinning at him behind a
network of whirling steel.

Anse gathered his strength and pressed
forward with reckless fury. His sword
hummed and whistled and roared against
Volakech’s hard-held guard. He laid open
arms, legs, cheek; he probed and lunged
for the rebel king’s trunk. Volakech

STAR

snarled, but step by step he was driven
back.

Warriors fell, but it was on the bodies
of foemen and even dying they stabbed up-
ward at the enemy. Bitter, bloody, utterly
ruthless, the struggle swayed about the
rocketship. It was old Khazak that fought,
the planet of warriors, and, even as he
hewed and danced and slew, Janazik
thought bleakly that he was trying to end
the gory magnificence of that age; he was
bringing civilization and with it the doom
of his own kind. Khazak of the future
would not be the same world.

If they won — if they won!

“To me!” he yelled. “To me, men of
Aligan! Hai, Aligan! Krakenau! Dou-
gald !”

They heard and rallied round him, the
last gasping survivors of his band. But
there were few of Volakech’s men left,
few.

"Volakech! Aid the king! To me, men
of Volakech!” The rebel shouted at the
top of his lungs. And Anse lunged in at
him, beating against the swift armor of the
axe.

“Anse!” Janazik’s urgent shout cut
through the clangor of battle. “Anse, here !
We’re blasting free!”

The human hardly heard him. He forced
his way closer in against Volakech, his
sword whistling about the usurper’s hel-
meted head.

“Anse!” shouted Janazik. “Anse — Ellen
needs you — ”

With a tiger snarl, Anse broke free
from his opponent and whirled about. A
rebel stood before him. There was an in-
stant of violence too swift to be followed,
and Anse leaped over the ripped body and
up to Janazik.

The Khazaki stood by the airlock. There
was a ring of corpses before him; his
sword ran blood.

“Ellen?” gasped Anse. “Ellen?”

“Inside,” rasped Janazik. “She’s inside.
We have to get out of here — only way to
get your attention — Come on!”

Anse saw the armed band swarming at
them from one of the outer towers, de-
fenders who had finally noticed the battle
at the rocket and were coming to aid their
king. Not a chance against them — except
the boat!

6— Planet Stories— Fall

SHIP 81

Man and Khazaki stepped back into the
airlock. A storm of arrows and javelins
broke loose. Anse saw two of his men
fall — then Janazik had slammed the heavy
outer valve and dogged it shut.

“Ellen !” he gasped. “Ellen — take the
boat up before they dynamite it!”

The girl nodded. She -was strapping her-
self into the pilot’s seat before the gleaming
control panel. Only Alonzo was there with
her, bleeding but still on his feet. Four
of them survived — only four — but they had
the boat !

Through the viewport, Anse saw the at-
tackers surging around the hull. They’d
use ballistae to crush it, dynamite to blow
it up, blaster cannon to fry them alive in-
side the metal shell — unless they got it into
the sky first.

“Take the engines, Alonzo,” said Ellen.

Gonzales Alonzo nodded. “You help me,
Janazik,” he said. “I’m not sure I — can
stay conscious — ”

T HE PILOT ROOM was in the bows.

Behind it, bulkheaded off, lay the air
plant and the other mechanisms for main-
taining life aboard — not very extensive, for
the boat wouldn’t be in space long. Amid-
ships were the control gyros, and behind
still another bulkhead the engine controls.
Rather than install an elaborate automatic
feed system, the builders had relied on
manual controls acting on light signals
flashed by the pilot. It was less efficient,
but it had shortened the labor of con-
structing the vessel and was good enough
for the mere hop it had to make.

“I don’t know anything about it,” said
Janazik doubtfully.

“I’ll tell you what to do — Help me ”

Leaning on the Ivhazaki’s arm, Alonzo
stumbled toward the stern.

Anse strapped his big body into the chair
beside Ellen’s. “I can’t help much, I’m
afraid,” he said.

“No — except by being here,” she smiled.
Looking out, he saw that the assault on
the castle was almost over — beaten off. It
had provided the diversion they needed —
but at what cost, at what cost?

“We might as well take off for the
Star Ship right away,” he said.

“Of course. And that will end the war.
Volakech can either surrender or sit in
the castle till he rots.”

82 PLANET

“Or we can use the ship to blast the
citadel.”

“No — oh, Cosmos, no!” Her eyes were
filled with sudden horror.

“Why not?” lie argued angrily. “Only
way we can rescue our people if he won’t
give them up of his own^will.”

“We might kill Carse,” she whispered.
It was on his tongue to snap good rid-
dance, but he choked down the impulse.
“Why do you care for him that much?”
“He’s my brother,” she said simply, and
he realized that in spite of her civilized
protestations Ellen was sufficiently Khazaki
to feel the primitive unreasoning clan loy-
alty of the planet. She added slowly: “And
when Father died, years ago, Carse took
his place, he’s been both father and big-
brother to me. He may have some wrong

ideas, but he’s always been so — good ”

A child’s worship of the talented, hand-
some, genial elder brother, and she had
never really outgrown it. Well — it didn’t
matter. Once they had the Star Ship, Carse
didn’t matter. “He’ll be as safe as anyone
can be in these days,” said Anse. “I —
I’ll protect him myself if need be.”

Her hand slid into his, and she kissed
him, there in the little boat while it rocked
and roared under the furious assaults from
without. “Anyone who hurts Carse is my
blood foe,” she breathed. “But anyone
who helps him helps me, and — and — ”
Anse smiled, dreamily. The engines
began to stutter, wanning up, and Vola-
kech’s men scattered in dismay. They had
seen the fire that spurted from the rocket
tubes.

And in the engine room, Masefield Car-
son held his blaster leveled on Alonzo and
Janazik. “Go ahead,” he smiled. “Go
ahead — take the ship up.”

VI

T he khazaki swore lividly.

His sword seemed almost to leap
lialfway out of the scabbard. Carse swung
the blaster warningly, and he clashed the
weapon back. Useless, useless, when white
flame could destroy him before he got mov-
ing.

“How did you get here?’ he snarled.

The tall, bronze-haired man smiled
again. “I wasn't in the fight,” he said.
“Volakech wanted to save my knowledge

STORtES

and told me to stay out of the battle. I
wasn’t really needed. But it occurred to
me that your assault was obviously a
futile gesture unless you hoped in some
way to capture the boat. So I hid in here
to guard it — just in case. And now —
we’ll take her up. We may just as well
do so. Once I have the Star Ship — ” He
gestured at Alonzo. “Start the engines.
And no tricks. I understand them as well
as you do.”

Gonzales strapped himself in place and
stood swaying with weakness while he
manipulated the controls. “I can’t — reach
that wheel — ” he gasped.

“Turn it, Janazik,” said Carse. “About
a quarter turn — that’s enough.”

The impassive faces of meters wavered
and blurred Ixdore Alonzo’s swimming
eyes. He had been pretty badly hurt. But
the engines were warming up.

“Strap yourself in, Janazik,” said Carse.

The Khazaki obeyed, sickly. He didn’t
really need the anti -acceleration webbing—
Carse himself was content to hang on to
a stanchion with one hand — but it would
hamper his movements, he would have no
way of making a sudden leap. Between
them, he and Alonzo could handle the
engines readily enough, Carse giving them
their orders. Then once they were at the
Star Ship he could blast them down, go
out to capture Anse and Ellen — and the
old books said one man could handle the
ship if necessary —

How to warn the two in the pilot room ?
How to get help? The warrior’s brain
began to turn over, cool and steady now,
swift as chilled lightning.

The boat spouted flame, stood on its tail
and climbed for the sky. Acceleration
dragged at Carse, but it wasn’t too great
for a strong man to resist. Carse tightened
his grip on the stanchion. His blaster was
steady on them.

Ellen’s signal lights blinked and blinked
on the control panels. More on the No. 3
jet, ease to port, full ahead, cut No. 2 . . .
Alonzo handled most of it, occasionally
gasping a command to Janazik. The bellow
of the rockets filled the engine room.

And in the bows, Dougald Anson saw
the world reel and fall behind, saw the
rainy sky open up in a sudden magni-
ficence of sun, saw it slowly darken and
the stars come awesomely out. Gods, gods,

STAR SHIP

was this space? Open space? No wonder
the old people had longed to get away 1

* * *

How to get help, how to warn Anse —
Janazik’s mind spun like an unloaded en-
gine, spewing forth plan after unusable
plan. Quickly, now, by Shantuzik’s hells !

No way out — and the minutes were flee-
ing, the rocket was reaching for the sky,
he knew they were nearing the Star Ship
and still he lay in his harness like a sheep
and obeyed Carse’s gun-point orders !

The disgrace of it! He snarled his
anger, and at Alonzo’s gasped command
swung the wheel with unnecessary sav-
agery. The ship lurched as a rocket tube
overfired. Carse nearly lost his hold, and
for an instant Janazik’s hands were at the
acceleration webbing, ready to fling it off
and leap at him.

The man recovered, and his blaster came
to the ready again. He had to shout to
be heard above the thundering jets : “Don’t
try that — either of you ! I can shoot you
down and handle it myself if I must!”

He laughed then, a tall and splendid fig-
ure standing strained against the brutal,
clawing acceleration. Ellen’s brother — aye!
And one could see why she wanted him
spared. Janazik’s lip curled back from his
teeth in a snarl of hate.

T HE ROCKET must be very near es-
cape velocity now. Presently Ellen
would signal for the jets to be turned off
and they would rush weightless through
space while she took her readings and
plotted the orbit that would get them to
the Star Ship. And if then Carse emerged
with his blaster —

Anse had only a sword.

But — Anse is Arne, thought Janazik. If
there is any faintest glimmer of a chance
Anse ivill find it. And if not, we’re really
no worse off than now. I’ll have to warn
Anse and leave the rest up to him.

The Khazaki nodded bleakly to himself.
It would probably mean his own death
before Carse’s blaster flame — and damn it,
damn it, he liked living. Even if the old
Khazak he knew were doomed, there had
been many new worlds of the Galactic
frontier. He and Anse had often dreamed
of roving over them —

83

However —

A red light blinked on the panel. Ellen’s
signal to cut the rockets. They were at es-
cape "velocity.

Wearily, his hand shaking, Alonzo threw
the master switch. The sudden silence was
like a thunderclap.

And Janazik screeched the old Kra-
kenaui danger call from his fullest lungs.

Carse turned around with a curse, awk-
ward in the sickening zero-gravity of free
fall. “It won’t do you any good,” he yelled
thickly. “I’ll kill him too—”

Alonzo threw the master switch up !
With a. coughing roar, the rockets burst
back into life. No longer holding the stan-
chion, Carse was hurled to the floor.

Janazik clawed at his webbing to get
free. Carse leveled his blaster on Alonzo.
The engineer threw another switch at ran-
dom, and the direction of acceleration
shifted with sudden violence, slamming
Carse against the farther wall.

His blaster raved, and Alonzo had no
time to scream before the flame licked
about him.

And in the control room, Anse heard
Janazik’s high ululating yell. The reflexes
of the wandering years came back to
galvanize him. His sword seemed to leap
into his hand, he flung himself out of
his chair webbing with a shout . . .

“Anse !” Ellen’s voice came dimly to his
ears, hardly noticed. “Anse — what is it — ”

He drifted weightless in midair, cursing,
trying to swim. And then the rockets
woke up again and threw him against the
floor. He twisted with Khazaki agility,
landed crouched, and bounded for the
stern.

Ellen looked after him, gasping, for an
instant yet unaware of the catastrophe,
thinking how little she knew that yellow-
maned savage after all, and how she would
like to learn, and —

The rocket veered, crazily. Anse caught
himself as he fell, adjusted to the new
direction of gravity, and continued his
plunging run. The crash of a blaster came
from ahead of him.

He burst into the control room and saw
it in one blinding instant. Alonzo’s charred
body sagging in its harness, Janazik half out
of his, Carse staggering to his feet — the
blaster turned on Janazik, Janazik, the
finger tightening —

84 PLANE T

T IGER-LIKE, ANSE SPRANG.

Carse glimpsed him, turned, the
blaster half swung about . . . and the mur-
derous fighting machine which was Dou-
gald Anson had reached him. Carse saw
the sword shrieking against his face; it
was the last thing he ever ^aw . . .

Anse lurched back against the control
panel “Turn it off!” yelled Janazik.
“Throw that big switch there !”

Mechanically, the human obeyed, and
there was silence again, a deep ringing si-
lence in which they floated free. It felt like
an endless falling.

Falling, falling — Anse looked numbly
down at his bloody sword. Falling, falling,
falling — but that couldn’t lie right, he
thought dully. He liad already fallen. He
had killed Ellen’s brother.

“And I love her,” he whispered.

Janazik drifted over, slowly in the si-
lent room. His eyes were a deep gold,
searching now. If Ellen won’t have him,
he and I will go out together, ,out to the
stars and the great new frontier. But if
she will, I’ll have to go alone, I’ll always
be alone —

Unless she would come too. She’s a good
kid ... I’d like to have her along. Maybe
take a mate of my own too . . . But that
can never be, now. She won’ t come tvear her
brother’s slayer.

“You might not have had to kill him,”
said Janazik “Maybe you could have dis-
armed him.”

“Not before he got one of us — probably
you,” said Anse tonelessly. “Anyway, he
needed killing. He shot Alonzo.”

He added, after a moment : “A man has
to stand by his comrades.”

Janazik nodded, very slowly. “Give me
your sword,” he said.

“Eh?” Anse looked at him. The blue
eyes were unseeing, blind with pain, but
he handed over the red weapon. Janazik
slijyped his own glaive into the human’s
fingers.

Then he laid a hand on Anse’s shoulder
and smiled at him, and then looked away.

We Khazaki don’t know love. There is
comradeship, deeper than any Earthling
knows. When it happens between male and

STGRiES

female, they are mates. When it is betxveen
male and male, they are blood-brothers.
And a man must stand by his comrades.

Ellen came in, pulling her way along
the walls by the handholds, and Anse
looked at her without saying a word, just
looking.

“What happened?” she said. “What is
the — Oh!”

Carse’s body floated in midair, turning
over and over in air currents like a
drowned man in the sea.

“Carse — Carse — ”

Ellen pushed from the wall, over to the
dead man. She looked at his still face,
and stroked his blood-matted hair, and
smiled through a mist of tears.

“You were always good to me, Carse,”
she whispered. “You were . . . goodnight,
brother. Goodnight.”

Then turning to Anse and Janazik, with
something cold and terrible in her voice:
“Who killed him?”

Anse looked at her, dumbly.

“I did,” said Janazik.

He held forth the dripping sword. “He
stowed away — was going to take over the
ship. Alonzo threw him oflf balance by
turning the rockets back on. He killed
Alonzo. Then I killed him. He needed it.
He was a traitor and a murderer, Ellen.”

“He was my brother,” she whispered.
And suddenly she w r as sobbing in Anse’s
arms, great racking sobs that seemed to
tear her slender body apart.

But she’d get over it.

Anse looked at Janazik over her shoul-
der, and while he ruffled her shining hair
his eyes locked with the Khazaki’s. This
is the end. Once we land, we can never see
each other, not ever again. And we were
comrades in the old. days . . .

Farezoell, my brother.

W HEN THE STAR SHIP landed
outside Krakenau’s surrendered cit-
adel, it was still raining a little. Janazik
looked out at the wet gray world and
shivered. Then, wordlessly, he stepped
from the airlock and walked slowly down
the hill toward the sea. He did not look
back, and Anse did not look after him.

STRANGE EXODUS

By ROBERT ABERNATHY

Cigantie, the Monsters had come nut df Interstellar

space to devour Earth. They gnawed at her soil, dr ank deep
of her seas. Where, on this gutted cosmic carcass, could

humanity flee?

Illustrated by McWILLIAMS

Thus began for him a weird existence — the life of a parasite, of a flea on a dog.

W ESTOVER GOT A SHOCK
when he stumbled onto the mon-
ster, for all that he knew one had
been through here.

He had been following the high ground
toward the hills, alternately splashing
through waist-deep water and climbing on-
to comparatively dry knolls. To right and

85

PLANE T STORIES

86

left of him was the sullen noise of the
river in flood, and behind him, too, the
rising water he had barely escaped. The
night was overcast, the moon a faint disk
of glow that left river and hills and even
the mud underfoot invisible.

He had not sought in his mind for the
flood’s cause, but had merely taken it
numbly as part of the fury and confusion
of a world in ruin. Anyway, he was dead
tired, out on his feet.

He sensed more than saw the looming
wall before him, but he thought it the bare
ledge-rock of a stripped hillside until he
stepped into a small pot-hole and lurched
forward, and his outflung hands sank into
the slime that covered a surface faintly,
horrifyingly resilient.

He recoiled as if seared, and retreated,
slithering in the muck. For moments his
mind was full of dark formless panic; then
he took a firm hold on himself and tried to
comprehend the situation.

Nothing was distinguishable beyond a
few yards, but his mind’s eye could see
the rest — the immense slug-like shape that
extended in ponderous repose across the
river valley, its head and tail spilling over
the hills on either side, five miles apart.
The beast was quiescent until morning —
sleeping, if such things slept.

And that explained the flood; the mon-
ster’s body had formed an unbreakable
dam behind which the river had been
steadily piling up in those first hours of
night; if it did not move until dawn, the
level would be far higher then.

Westover stood motionless in the black-
ness ; how long, he did not know. He was
hardly aware of the water that covered his
feet, crept over his ankles, and swirled half-
way to his knees. Only the emergence of
the moon through a rift of the cloud
blanket brought him awake; its dim light
gleamed all around on a great sheet of
water, unbroken save for scattered black
hummocks — crests of knolls like that on
which he stood, all soon to be hidden by
the rising flood.

For a moment he knew despair. The
way 1>ack was impassable, and the way
ahead was blocked by the titanic enemy.

Then the impersonal will that had driv-
en him implacably two days and nights
without stopping came to his rescue. West-
over plodded forward, pressed his shrink-

ing body against the slimy, faintly warm
surface of the monster’s foot, and sought
above him with upstretched hands — found
holds, and began to climb with a strength
he had not known was left in him.

The moonlight’s fading again was merci-
ful as he. climbed the sheer, slippery face
of the foot ; but he could hear the wash and
chuckle of the flood below. His tired brain
told him treacherously: “I’m already asleep
— this is a nightmare.” Once, listening
to that insidious voice, he slipped and
for instants hung dizzily by his hands,
and for some minutes after he had found
a new foothold merely clung panting with
pounding heart

Some time after he had found courage
to resume the climb, he dragged himself,
gasping and quivering, to comparative
safety on the broad shelf that marked the
rim of the foot. Above him lay the great
black steep that rose to the summit of the
monster’s humped back, a mountain to be
climbed. Westover felt poignantly that
his exhausted body could not make that
ascent and face the long and dangerous
descent beyond, which he had to make be-
fore dawn . . , but not now . . . not
now. . . .

H E LAY IN a STATE between
waking and dreaming, high on the
monster’s side; and it seemed that the
colossal body moved, swelling and sighing
— — but he knew they did not breathe as
backboned animals do. Westover had been
one of the men who, in the days when
humanity was still fighting, had accumu-
lated quite a store of knowledge about the
enemy — the enemy that was brainless and
toolless, but that was simply too vast for
human intelligence and weapons to de-
feat . . .

Westover no longer saw the murky
moonlight, 'the far faint glitter of the flood
or the slope of the living mountain. He
saw, as he had seen from a circling jet
plane, an immense tree of smoke that rose
and expanded under the noonday sun,
creamy white above and black and oily lie-
low, and beneath the black cloud some-
thing that writhed and flowed sluggislily
in a cyclopean death agony.

That picture dissolved, and was replaced
by the face of a man — one who might
now be alive or dead, elsewhere in the

STRANGE EXODUS

chaos of a desolated planet. It was an or-
dinary face, roundish, spectacled, but
etched now by tragedy; the voice that
went with it was flat, unemotional, ped-
antic.

“There are so many of them, and we’ve
destroyed so few — and to kill those few
took our mightiest weapons. Examination
of the ones that have been killed discloses
the reason why ordinary projectiles and
bombs and poisons are ineffective against
them — apart, that is, from the chief rea-
son of sheer size. The creatures are so
loosely organized that a local injury hardly
affects the whole. In a sense, each one of
them is a single cell — like the slime molds,
the Earthly life forms that most resemble
them.

“That striking resemblance, together
with the fact that they chose Earth to
attack out of all the planets of the Solar
System, shows they must have originated
on a world much like this. But while on
Earth the slime molds are the highest
reticular organisms, and the dominant life
is all multicellular, on the monsters’ home
world conditions must have favored uni-
cellular growth. Probably as a result of
this unspecialized structure, the monsters
have attained their great size and perhaps
for the same reason they have achieved
what even intelligent cellular life so far
hasn’t — liberation from existence bound to
one world’s surface, the conquest of space.
They accomplished it not by invention but
by adaptation, as brainless life once
crawled out of the sea to conquer the dry
land.

“The monsters who have descended on
Earth must represent the end result of a
long evolution completed in space itself.
They are evidently deep-space beings, able
to propel themselves from planet to planet
and from star to star in search of food,
guided by instinct to suns and worlds like
ours. Descending on such a planet, they
move across its surface systematically in-
gesting all edible material — all life not
mobile enough to avoid their march. They
are like caterpillars that overrun a planet
and strip it of its leaves, before moving
on to the next.

“Man is a highly mobile species, so our
direct casualties of this invasion have been
very light and will continue to be. But
when the monsters have finished with

87

Earth, there will be no vegetation left for
man’s food, no houses, no cities, none of
the fixed installations of civilization, and
the end will be far more terrible than if
we were all devoured by the monsters.”

W ESTOVER AWOKE, feeling him-
self bathed by the cold sweat of
nightmare — then he realized that a misty
rain had wetted his face and sogged his
clothes. That, and the sleep he had had,
refreshed him and made his mind clearer
than it had been for days, and he remem-
bered that he could not sleep but had to
go on, searching with a hope that would
not die for some miraculously spared re-
fuge where civilization and science might
yet exist, where there would be the means
to realize his idea for stopping the mon-
sters.

He sat up, eyes searching the sky for a
sign to tell him how long he had slept.
Low on the western horizon he found the
faint glow that told of the moon’s set-
ting ; and in the east a stronger light was
already struggling through the clouds and
mist, becoming every moment less tenuous
and illusory, more the bitter reality of the
breaking day.

Even as West over began frantically
climbing, out of that lightening sky the
hopelessness of his effort pressed down
on him. With dawn the monster would
begin to move, to crawl eastward impelled
by the same dim phototropic urge which
must guide these things out of the inter-
steller depths to Sun-type stars. All of
them had crept endlessly eastward around
the Earth, gutting the continents and
churning the sea bottoms, and by now
whatever was left of human civilization
must be starving beyond the Arctic circle,
or aboard ships at sea. The hordes that still
lived and wandered over the once populous
fertile lands, like this — would not live long.

For a man like Westover, who had been
a scientist, it was not the prospect of
death that was most crushing, but the
death blow to his human pride, the star-
storming pride of mind and will — defeated
by sheer bulk and mindless hunger.

Near the crest of the monster’s back,
he stumbled and fell hands and knees on
the shagreen-roughness of the skin; at
first he thought only that an attack of diz-
ziness had made him fall, then he realized

88 PLANET

that the surface beneath him had shifted.
Unmistakably even in the misty dawn-
light, the hills and valleys of the rugose
back were changing shape, as the vast
protoplasmic mass below crawled, flowed
beneath its integument. In slow peristaltic
motion the waves marched eastward, to-
ward the monster’s head.

He could stay where he was unharmed,
of course. On the monster’s back, of all
places, he had nothing to fear from it or
from others of its kind. But he knew
with desperate clarity that by nightfall,
when the beast became still once more, ex-
haustion and growing hunger would have
made him unable to descend. As he lay
where he had fallen, he felt that weakness
creeping over him, no longer held in check
by the will that had kept him doggedly
plodding forward.

Again he lay half conscious, in a leth-
argy that unchecked must grow steadily
deeper until death. Isolated thoughts floated
through his head. It occurred to him that
he was now ideally located to conduct the
experiments necessary to prove his theory
of how to destroy the monsters — if only
someone had had the foresight to build a
biological laboratory on the monster’s back.
Of course the rolling motion would create
special problems of technique. . . Idiocy. . .
Once more he seemed to glimpse Sutton’s
face, as the biologist calmly made that
grisly report to the President’s Committee
on Extermination . . . Sutton’s prediction
had been a hundred percent correct. The
monsters’ hunger knew no halt until they
had absorbed into themselves all the or-
ganic material on the world which was
their prey. . . And men must starve, as he
was starving now. . . .

W ITH A STRUGGLE Westover
roused himself, first sitting up,
then swaying to his feet, frowning with
the effort to look sanely at the terrible
inspiration that had come to him. The cloud
blanket was breaking up, the sun already
high, beating down on the naked moving
plateau on which the man stood. The idea
born in him seemed to stand that light,
even to expand into hope.

Fingers shaking, he unhitched the light
ax from his belt and began to hack with
feverish industry at the monster’s crusted
hide.

STORIES

The scaly, weathered epidermis seemed
immeasurably thick. But at last he had
chopped through it, reached the softer
protoplasm beneath. Clawing and hewing
in the hole he had made, he tore out heavy
slabs of the monster’s flesh.

A ripple that did not belong to the
crawling motion ran over the thing’s sur-
face round alx>ut. Westover laughed wild-
ly with a sudden sense of power. He, the
insignificant human mite, liad made the
miles-long beast twitch like a flea-bitten
dog.

The analogy was pat ; like a flea, he had
lodged on a larger animal and was about
to nourish himself from it. The slabs of
flesh he had cut off were gray and unap-
petizing, but he knew from the studies he
had helped Sutton make that the mon-
sters, extraterrestrial though they were,
were in the basic chemistry of proteins,
fats and carbohydrates one with man or
the amoeba, and therefore might be — food.

His matches were dry in their water-
proof case ; he made a smoldering fir e
from the loose fibrous scale of the mon-
ster’s back, and half an hour later was
replete. Either the long fast, or involun-
tary revulsion, or perhaps merely die mo-
tion of the creature brought on nausea, but
he fought it sternly back and succeeded
in keeping his strange meal down. Then
he was tormented by thirst. It was some
time, though, before he could bring him-
self to drink the colorless fluid that had
collected in the wound he had inflicted on
the monster.

Thus began for him a weird existence —
the life of a parasite, of a flea on a dog.
The monster crawled by day and rested
by night ; strengthened, the man could
have left it then, but somehow night after
night he did not. It wasn’t, he argued with
himself sometimes in the days when he
lay torpidly drowsing, lulled by the long
sway, arms over his head to protect him
from the sun’s baking, merely that he was
chained to the only source of food he knew
in all the world — not just that he was
developing a flea’s psychology. He was a
man and a scientist, and he was conducting
an experiment. . . His life on the mon-
ster’s back was proving something, some-
thing of vast importance for man, the
extinct animal — but for increasingly long-
er periods of time he could not remember

STRANGE EXODUS 89

what it was. . . .

There came a morning, though, when he
remembered.

H E WOKE with the sun’s warmth
on his body and the realization of
something amiss trickling through his head.
It was a little while before he recognized
the wrongness, and when he did he sat
bolt upright.

The sun was already up, and the mon-
ster should have begun once more its
steady, ravenous march to the east. But
there was no motion; the great living ex-
panse lay still around him. lie wondered
wildly if it was dead.

Presently, though, he felt a faint shud-
dering and lift beneath his feet, and
heard far stifled mutterings and sighs.

Westover’s mind was beginning to func-
tion again; it was as though the cessation
of the rock and sway had exorcised the
lethargy that had lain upon him. He knew
now that lie had been almost insane for
the time he had passed here, touched by
the madness that takes hermits and men
lost in deserts or oceans. And his was a
stranger solitude than any of those.

Now he listened strainingly to the por-
tentous sounds of change in the mon-
ster’s vitals, and in a flash of insight knew
them for what they were. The scientists
had found, in the burst bodies of the Ti-
tans that had been killed by atomic bombs,
the answer to the riddle of these creatures'
crossing of space: great vacuoles, pock-
ets of gas that in the living animal could
be under exceedingly high pressures, and
that could be expelled to drive the mon-
ster in flight like a reaction engine. Rocket
propulsion, of course, was nothing new to
zoology ; it was developed ages before man,
by the squids and by those odd degenerate
relatives of the vertebrates that are called
tunicates because of their gaudy cellulose-
plastic armor. . . .

The monster on which Westover had
been living as a parasite was generating
gases within itself, preparing to leave the
ravished Earth. That was the meaning of
its gargantuan belly rumblings. And they
meant further that he must finally leave
it — now or never — or be borne aloft to
die gasping in the stratosphere.

Hurriedly the man scrambled to the
highest eminence of the back and stood

looking about; and what he saw brought
him to the brink of despair. For all around
lay blue water, waves dancing and glint-
ing in the fresh breeze; and sniffing the
air he recognized the salt tang of the sea.
While he slept the monster had crept be-
yond the coast line, and lay now in what to
it was shallow water — fifty or a hundred
fathoms. Back the way it had come, a
headland was visible, mockingly, hopelessly
distant.

Of course — the great beast would crawl
into the sea, which would float its bloated
bulk and enable it to accelerate and take
flight. It would never have been able to
lift itself into the air from the dry land.

He should have foreseen that and made
his escape in time. Now that he had solved
the problem of human survival. . . But the
bright ocean laughed at him, sparkling
away wave beyond rolling wave, and be-
yond that blue headland could be only a
land made desert, where men become
beasts fought crazily over the last morsels
of food. He had lost track of the days he
had been on the monster’s back, but the
rape of Earth must be finished now. He
had no doubt that the things would de-
part as they had come into the Solar Sys-
tem — in that close, seemingly one-willed
swarm that Earth’s astronomers had at
first taken for a comet. If this one was
leaving, the rest no doubt w f ere too.

Westover sat for a space with head in
hands, hearing the faint continuing mur-
murs from below. And he remembered the
voices.

H E HAD BEEN HEARING them
again as he awoke — the distant muf-
fled voices whose words he could not make
out, not the small close ones that some-
times in the hot middays had spoken
clearly in his ear and even called his name.
The latter had to be, as he had vaguely
accepted them even then, illusions — but
the others — with his new clarity he was
suddenly sure that they had been real.

And a wild, white light of hope blazed
in him, and he flung himself flat on the
rough surface, beat on it with bare fists
and shouted: “Help! Here I am! Help!”
He paused to listen, with fierce intent-
ness, and heard nothing but the faint eruc-
tations deep inside the monster.

Then he sprang to his feet, gripping

PLANE T STORMES

his hand-ax, and ran panting to the place
where he had dug for food. His excava-
tions tended to close and heal overnight;
now he went to work with vicious strokes
enlarging the latest one, hacking and tear-
ing it deeper and deeper.

He was almost hidden in the cavity
when a shadow fell across him from be-
hind. He whirled, for there could be no
shadows on the monster’ s back.

A man stood watching him calmly — an
elderly man in rusty black clothing, lean-
ing on a stick. The staff, the snowy beard,
and something that smoldered behind the
benign eyes, gave him the look of an an-
cient prophet.

“Who are you?” asked Westover,
breathlessly but almost without surprise.

“I am the Preacher,” the old man said.
“The Lord hath sent me to save you.
Arise, my son, and follow me.”

Westover hesitated. “I’m not just imag-
ining you?” he appealed. “Somebody else
has really found the answer?”

The Preacher’s brows knitted faintly,
but then his look turned to benevolent un-
derstanding. “You have 'been alone too
long here. Come with me — I will take you
to the Doctor.”

Westover was still not sure that the
other was more than one of the powerful
specters of childhood — the Preacher, the
Doctor, no doubt the Teacher next — risen
to rob him of his last shreds of sanity.
But he nodded in childlike obedience, and
followed.

When, a few hundred yards nearer the
monster’s head, the other halted at a black
rent in the rugose hide, the mouth of a
burrow descending into utter blackness —
Westover knew that both the Preacher
and his own wild hope were real.

“Down here. Into the belly of Leviath-
an,” said the old man solemnly, and West-
over nodded this time with alacrity.

T he crawling descent

through the twisting, Stygian bur-
row had much that ought to belong to a
journey into Hell. . . More than that, no
demonolagist’s imagination could have con-
ceived without experiencing the sheer hor-
ror of the yielding beslimed walls that
seemed every moment squeezing in to trap
them unspeakably. The air was warm and
rank with the familiar heavy sweetish

odor of the monster’s colorless blood. . . .

Then, as he knew it must, a light glim-
mered ahead, the sinus widened, and West-
over climbed to his feet and stood, weak-
kneed still, staring at a chamber carved in
the veritable belly of Leviathan. The floor
underfoot was firm, as was the wall his
shaking fingers tested. Dazzled, he saw
tools leaning against the walls, spades,
crowbars, axes, and a half-dozen people,
men and women in rough grimy clothing,
who stood watching him with lively in-
terest.

The Preacher stood beside him, breath-
ing hard and mopping his forehead. But
he brushed aside the deferential offers of
the others: “No — I will take him to the
Doctor myself. All of you must hurry
now to close the shaft.”

There was another tunnel to be crawled
through, but that one was firm-walled as
the room they left behind. They emerged
into a larger cavern, that like the first
was lit — only now did the miracle of it
obtrude itself in his dazed mind — by fluor-
escent tubes, and filled with equipment
that gleamed glass and metal. Over an ap-
paratus with many fluid-dripping trays,
like an air-conditioning device, bent a lone
man.

“Is it working?” inquired the Preacher.

“It’s working,” the other answered with-
out looking up from the adjustment he
was making. Bubbles were rising in the
fluid that filled the trays, rising and burst-
ing, rising and bursting with a curiously
fascinating monotony. The subtly tense
attitudes of the two initiates told Westover
better than words that there was something
hugely important in the success of what-
ever magic was producing those bubbles.

The thaumaturge straightened, wiping
his hands on his trousers as he turned
with a satisfied grin on his round, spec-
tacled face — then both he and Westover
froze in dumbfounded recognition.

S UTTON was first to recover. He said
quietly, “Welcome aboard the ark. Bill.
You’re just in time — I think we’re about
to hoist anchor.” His quick eyes studied
Westover’s face, and he gestured toward
a packing box against the wall opposite his
apparatus. “Sit down. You’ve been through
the mill.”

“That’s right.” Westover sat down diz-

STRANGE

zily. ‘Tve been aboard your ark for some
time now, though. Only as an ectopara-
site.”

“It’s high time you joined the endo-
parasites. Lucky you scratched around
enough up there to create repercussions
we could feel down here. You got the
same idea, then?”

“I stumbled onto it,” Westover admitted.
“I was wandering across country — my
plane crashed on the way back from that
South American bug hunt dreamed up by
somebody who’d been reading Wells’ War
of the Worlds. I think my pilot went nuts ;
you could see too much of the destruction
from up there . . . But I got out in one
piece and started walking — looking for
some place with people and facilities that
could try out my method of killing the
monsters. I thought — I still think — I had a
sure-fire way to do that — but I didn’t real-
ize then that it was too late to think of
killing them off.”

Sutton nodded thoughtfully. “It was too
late — or too early, perhaps. We’ll have to
talk that over.”

Westover finished the brief account of
his coming to dwell on the monster’s
back. The other grinned happily.

“You began with the practice, where I
worked out the theory first.”

“I haven’t got so far with the theory,”
said Westover, “but I think I’ve got the
main outlines. Until the monsters came,
man was a parasite on the face of the
Earth. Fundamentally, parasitism — on the
green plants and their by-products — was
our way of life, as of all animals from
the beginning. But the monsters absorbed
into themselves all the plant food and even
the organic material in the soil. So we
have only one way out — to transfer our
parasitism to the only remaining food
source — the monsters themselves.

“The monsters almost defeated us, be-
cause of their two special adaptations of
extreme size and ability to cross space.
But man has always won the battle of
adaptations before, because he could im-
provise new ones as the need arose. The
greatest crisis humanity ever faced called
for the most radical innovation in our
way of life.”

“Very well put,” approved Sutton. “Ex-
cept that you make it sound easy. By the
time I’d worked it out like that, things

EXOBUS 91

were already in such a turmoil that put-
ing it into effect was the devil’s own job.
About the only ones I could find to help
me were the Preacher and his people. They
have the faith that moves mountains, that
has made this self-moving mountain in-
habitable.”

“It is inliabitable ?” Westover’s question
reflected no doubt.

UTTON GESTURED at the bubbling
device behind him. “That thing is
making air now, which we’re going to
need when the monster’s in space. It was
when we were still trying to find a poison
for the beasts that I hit on the catalyst that
makes their blood give up its oxygen — ■
that’s its blood flowing through the filters.
We’ve got an electric generator running
by tapping the monster’s internal gas
pressure. There are problems left before
we’ll be fully self-sufficient here — but the
monster is so much like us in fundamental
makeup that its body contains all the ele-
ments human life needs too.”

“Then,” Westover glanced appreciative-
ly around, “it looks like the main hazard is
claustrophobia.”

“Don’t worry about a cave-in. We’re
surrounded by solid cystoid tissue. But,”
Sutton’s voice took on a graver note,
“there may be other psychological dangers.
I don’t think all our people — there are
fifty-one, fifty- two of us now — realize yet
that this colony isn’t just a temporary
expedient. Human history hasn’t had such
a turning-point since men first started
chipping stone. Spengler’s Mensch als
Rauhtier — if he ever existed — has to be
replaced by the Mensch als Sclimarotzcr,
and the adjustment may come hard. We’ve
got to plan for the rest of our lives — and
our children’s and our children’s children’s
— as parasites inside this monster and
whatever others we can manage to — infect
— when they’re clustered again in space.”

“For the future,” put in the Preacher,
who had watched benignly the biologists’
reunion, “the Lord will provide, even as
He did unto Jonah when he cried to Him
out of the belly of the fish.”

“Amen,” agreed Sutton. But the gaze
he fixed on Wesfpver was oddly troubled.
“Speaking of the future brings up the
question of the idea you mentioned — your
monster-killing scheme.”

92 PLANET

W ESTOVER FLEXED his hands in-
voluntarily, like one who has been
too long enforcedly idle. In terse eager
sentences he outlined for Sutton the plan
that had burned in him during his bitter
wandering over the face of the ruined
land. It would be very easy to accomplish
from an endoparasite’s point of vantage,
merely by isolating from the creature’s
blood over a long period enough of some
potent secretion — hormone, enzyme or the
like — to kill when suddenly reintroduced
into the system. “Originally I thought we
could accomplish the same thing by syn-
thesis — but this way will be simpler.’*
“Beautifully simple.” Sutton smiled
wryly. “So much so that I wish you’d nev-
er thought of it.”

Westover stared. “Why?”

“Describing your plan, you sounded al-
most ready to put it into effect on the
spot.”

“No! Of course I realize — Well, I see
what you mean — I think.” Westover was
crestfallen.

Sutton smiled faintly.

“I think you do, Bill. To survive, we’ve
got to be good parasites. That means be-
fore all, for the coming generations, that
we keep our numbers down. A good para-
site doesn’t destroy or even overtax its
host. We don’t want to follow the sorry
example of such unsuccessful species as
the bugs of bubonic plague or typhoid;
we’ll do better to model ourselves on the
humble tapeworm.

“Your idea is dangerous for the same
reason. The monsters probably spend thou-
sands of years in interstellar space; dur-
ing that time they’ll be living exclusively on
their fat — the fuel they stored on Earth,
and so will we. We’ve got a whole

STORIES

new history of man ahead of us,
under such changed conditions that we
can’t begin to predict what turns it may
take. There’s a very great danger that
men will proliferate until they kill their
hosts. But imagine a struggle for Lebens-
raum when all the living space there is is
a few thousand monsters capable of sup-
porting a very limited number of people
each — with your method giving an easy
way to destroy these little worlds our de-
scendants will inhabit. It’s too much dyna-
mite to have around the house.”

Westover bowed his head, but he had
caught a curiously expectant glint in Sut-
ton’s eyes as he spoke. He thought, and
his face lightened. “Suppose we work
out a way to record my idea, one that
can’t be deciphered by anyone unintelli-
gent enough to be likely to misuse it A
riddle for our descendants — who should
have use for it some day.”

At last Sutton smiled. “That’s better.
You’ve thought it through to the end, I
see . . . This phase of our history won’t
last forever. Eventually, the monsters will
come to another planet not too unlike
Earth, because it’s on such worlds they
prey. A tapeworm can cross the Sahara
desert in the intestine of a camel — ■”

His voice was drowned in a vast hissing
roar. An irresistible pressure distorted the
walls of the chamber and scythed its oc-
cupants from their feet. Sutton staggered
drunkenly almost erect, fought his way
across the tilting floor to make sure of
his precious apparatus. He turned back to-
ward the others, bracing himself and
shouting something ; then, knowing his
words lost in the thunder, gestured to-
ward the Earth they were leaving, a half-
regretful, half*triumphant farewell,

%

Hey There!

don’t forget that from NOW on . • •

^ IT’S PLANET EVERY OTHER MONTH! 1

j first BI-MONTHLY issue on sale SEPTEMBER 1 |

Old pilots like Pop Gillette weren’t needed any more to ran
the big ships. Nowadays yon were boosted and roosted by the
grace of Gimmick. Sooner or later, Pop predicted, something

was gonna loose up • • •

The heavy ship shuddered to a stop five feet above the ramp • • •

PATCH

T he wall speaker in the

control tower was crackling softly
with space static when the voice
first cut in. “Lorelei calling Venusport

for landing. Over,”

Even across ten thousand miles of space
the sharp New England twang clearly
showed the origin of its owner. Joe flicked

By WILLIAM SHEDENHELM

93

94 PLANET

the transmitting stud and winked at the
radar man.

“Venusport to Lorelei. Gome on in, you
old space pirate. Use Ramp Four. Out.”

He glanced at the green spot on the
radar sweep screen that was the Lorelei,
entered a set of figures in the tower log,
then leaned back in the chair in front of
the control panels and lit a cigarette.

“That Pop,” he said, nodding vaguely
at the radar screen and the log book, “must
be damn near two hundred years old, and
he’s still the best pilot in the System. Used
to have the All-Planetary run back when
it was really something. When they put
in automatics for cruising it made him
so mad he quit and never would go back.
Said he wasn’t going to let a bunch of
machines run his ship, even out in space.”

He blew a beam of smoke at the spot
that moved slowly toward the center of the
radar sweep screen.

“He bought the tub he calls the Lorelei
at a surplus sale, and spends all his time
batting around the odd corners of space
that the Survey Patrol hasn’t gotten to
yet.” Joe puffed his cigarette reminiscent-
ly for a minute. “I remember the first time
I saw him land the Lorelei. Lord, what a
sight. No one else has ever had the nerve
to try it the way he does it, or at least
lived to tell about it. I wonder if he’s
gotten too old to do it anymore.”

The radar man stared at the faint speck
that showed above the horizon, .then
brought it into magnified focus on the
tele-screen.

“He’s coming in awfully funny,” he said.

Joe got up and stood staring out through
the sides of the big plastic bubble that
formed the walls and roof of the control
tower.

“I think he’s going to try it. Watch
this!”

T HE STUBBY OYALOID was angl-
ing in towards the Port from a little
above horizontal, as though to make a
belly landing. Just short of the field, the
steering jets gave a tremendous side blast
that whipped the ship into a tight up-
ward arc. All the ship’s jets winked out,
and the ship whistled straight up for over
a mile, began to slow, and dropped back
in free fall. The ship dropped faster and

STORIES

faster toward the concrete apron, tail first,
its jets dead.

Two hundred feet above the ramp Pop
Gillette hit the bank of firing buttons and
hit it hard. The heavy ship .shuddered to
a stop five feet above the ramp, cracking the
concrete with the fury of its rear jets,
spinning like an enormous pin-wheel, its
rotator jets gushing fire in hundred-yard
sweeps.

Joe wiped the sweat from his forehead
and dropped into his chair.

“Brother! Someday his tubes are going
to misfire when he tries that, and the
Lorelei is going to be spread from here
to Marsport !”

The radar man did not answer imme-
diately. He was still standing at the dome,
his mouth slightly agape, staring at the
stubby ship that now lay silent in Ramp
Four. He pulled himself together, closed
his mouth with a click, and moved back
to the sweep screen.

“Who the hell is that guy?”

“You’ve heard of Pop Gillette. Every-
body in space has. Anytime you want to
tell a whopper about space, all you have
to say is, T remember one time when
Pop Gillette and me was out around* so-
and-so . . .’ And whatever nutty place
you name, he’s probably really been there,
and whatever nutty thing you can think of
to happen, it probably really did happen
to him.”

The radar man nodded in recognition,
and Joe went on.

“Like the time he got mad at the people
at White Sands Port. One night he goosed
an asteroid down right in the middle of
their main landing strips. The damn thing
was a quarter of a mile long, and almost
as high. How he got it down through the
atmosphere, nobody knows, but he did . . .
and he landed it so gently that nobody
knew anything about it until they looked
out their windows the next morning.
They finally got the Patrol on him, and
told him the asteroid was legally his, so
he had to think of a way to get rid of
it. He did. Turned out to be laced with
uranium, so he rented, the whole darned
field for a month, cut the thing up and
carted it away. Sold it for a fortune.”

The outer door of the ovaloid ship
was now open, and as one of the Port’s
zeeps rolled alongside, a man, miniature

PATCH 95

in the distance, slid down the ship's side-
ladder and climbed aboard. Joe swung the
directional p.a. at the zeep.

“Hey Pop . . . come on up!”

T HE LITTLE FIGURE waved, and
the zeep headed for the control tower.
As it drew nearer they could begin to see
Pop Gillette more clearly. He was a thin
little man, deeply space tanned. He could
have been anyplace from fifty to three
hundred and fifty. He rode sitting on the
rear edge of the speeding zeep, balanced
precariously, calmly puffing a Venusian
cigarote.

He came through the outer control
rooms like a Martian whirlwind, spraying
greetings and minor presents in all direc-
tions.

“Hi there, Tom. Saw your unde out
near Ganymede. Living with a Phobian
Bat Woman . . .

“Hi there. Here’s that gooloo bird’s
tail feather you asked for five or six years
ago!” (It had been near twenty years
ago, when the recipient was four years
old.)

“Hello, Honey. You know that Nep-
tunian Rock Egg you wanted ? Got a
couple in my ship as big as your head.
Gome up to the hotel for supper tonight
and I’ll give them to you!” He winked
roguishly at Honey and whirled into the
control room.

“Hi Joe, you landlocked lard-bottom.
What have you been doing?” And before
Joe could start to answer, he went on.
“Had an unusual thing happen to me out
on Pluto. I was out prospecting for liquid
hydrogen wells when I sprung a leak
in my oxygen tank. I got it fixed, but most
of my oxy had leaked out. Had enough
for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and
the ship was two hours away. Thought
I’d never make it. Finally started back
with a load of icicles under my arm. Every
few minutes I’d stop, break off a piece,
and drop it into my tank. Turned out to
be pure oxygen, frozen stiff!”

When Joe had regained his composure,
he tossed a wink at the radar man, who
was again standing with his mouth ajar.

“Say, Pop,” Joe said with careful casu-
alness. “ All-Planetary ’s Mercury- Venus
liner is coming in about oh-four-four.”

Pop cholqpd on a lungful of cigarote
smoke, and, turning crimson through his
space tan, glared at Joe.

“You better clear out of this tower,
son. When that bunch of gears comes in,
it’s apt to take this whole side off the
planet !”

Joe kept his face serious.

“I hear this is one of the new models,”
he said. “They only use the pilot for land-
ings. Take-offs and cruising are all auto-
matic.”

Pop Gillette tossed his cigarote into the
disposall in disgust.

“I wouldn't put it past that bunch of
pants-brains to just point the things and
light a fuse. Those young punks they
have for pilots couldn’t belly on the moon.”

“But Pop,” Joe said. “You’re too old
to work a liner even if they did go back
to manuals.”

Pop Gillette flashed red and purple, and
glared at Joe.

“Too old ! Do you know what I hit when
I brought the Lorelei in just now? Four-
teen damn G’s ! If she wasn’t an old meteor
patrol ship she’d crack open like an egg
the way I handle her. Too old my space-
warped rear!”

“But ships are bigger these days, Pop.
When you were shoving them they couldn’t
have weighed over half a million tons.
The one that’s due this afternoon tops two
million. That’s a lot of ship.”

Pop Gillette shook his head derisively
at such ignorance, which was, after all, to
be expected from a ground crew man.

“They’re all the same. Once you have
the feel of it,” he rippled his fingers as
though working a bank of firing keys, “it
works anyplace. I run the Lorelei just like
I used to run my liners. I can qut it a bit
finer than I could a big ship, but elsewise
it doesn’t make any difference how big
they come. I could stand that liner on her
butt and write my name clean across that
field.” He jerked his head at the four-mile-
wide Venusport, and glared at Joe and the
radar man. “And cross the ‘t’s’ and dot the
T!”

I T WAS AN HOUR LATER, while
they were sitting around drinking Ven-
usian wine, that the call came through. You
always expect a distress call to be weak

96 PLANET

and difficult to understand, but this one
wasn’t. It was as clear as though the trans-
mitter were in the next room.

“Mayday ! Mayday ! Mayday ! All-Plan-
etary Liner Twelve calling Venusport !
Over!”

At the first sound of the universal dis-
tress call, Joe and the radar man went into
action. Joe hit a red stud that alerted
all the units at the Port, and cut in the
speakers in the other control sections, while
the radar man got a rough bearing on the
liner, and switched up the amplification
until he had the ship located within a
foot, and its speed and course plotted, to
five decimal places.

All this in the time it took the first
call to come through. Joe flipped the trans-
mitting stud.

“Venusport to All-Planetary Twelve.
All other units clear the air immediately.
Come in.”

The voice cut in sharply through the
space static again, sounding a little fright-
ened and tense.

“All-Planetary Twelve calling Venus-
port. Something went wrong with the
radar deflectors. We took a meteor through
the control room. Luckily it just clipped
us, but it put a ten foot hole in the
side. The man on duty got out okay, but
we lost all the air in that section. We
can’t bring her in with that hole in her.
We have to have air in the control room,
or all the switches arc out. Over.”

Outside, the control tower ships were
being moved out of the way, back into the
hangars and into the pits. Blinker lights
and radio landing beams were flickering
out “Stay Clear !” warnings to all ships
in that segment of space. Joe flipped the
stud again.

“Is the hole too big for a plastic patch?
Over.”

“It’s a good ten feet across. We haven’t
got any patches that big, and even if we
did have, they wouldn’t do any good. Once
we pumped the air back in, the pressure
would boot the patch out into space. The
only thing that will work is a welding job.
Over.”

Joe shook his head glumly and flipped
the stud.

“We’ve got enough monalloy here to
fix it, but we haven’t got a portable weld-
ing outfit that could handle the job. Down

STORIES

here we could have it fixed in half an hour.
Over.”

There was a pause before the voice came
back.

“That’s a lot of help. Ofrer.”

P OP GILLETTE tugged at Joe’s sleeve.

Joe started to shake him loose, but
stopped when he felt the old man’s grip
tighten on his arm like a space grapple.

“Let me have that thing,” he said. He
took the mike from Joe and flipped the
stud.

“Hey there! What’s your cargo?”

The speaker was silent for a moment,
other than for the faint crackle of the
space static. Then the voice cut in again,
a little more resigned than before, as it
rattled off the list of cargo.

“Let’s see. We’ve got twenty tons of
unrefined uranium from Titan, fifty thou-
sand gallons of mercury from Gany, and
twenty tons of canned wooklah meat from
Jupe. At least we can live on wooklah meat
on our way to Alpha Centauri.” He
laughed nervously. “Boy, is All-Planetary
going to be mad, at a hundred bucks a can.
Over.”

Pop Gillette scratched his chin reflective-
ly. Finally he shook his head in disgust.

“I could have told that bunch of fat-
headed clod-lubbers they couldn't trust a
bunch of machinery. If they’d of had a
pilot watching the screens instead of some
half-baked crewman, this wouldn’t have
happened. Easiest thing in the world to
blast around a meteor, but try to tell that
to that bunch.” He spat in disgust. “I
swore I’d never lift a hand for All-
Planetary again as long as I lived, but
now I guess I’ll have to go up and fix
that damned liner. First vacation I’ve had
in five years and I have to play nurse-
maid to a bunch of half-wits!”

He glared at Joe. “Well, are you coming
or aren’t you?”

Joe looked at him blankly.

Pop Gillette shook his head sadly at
the mental level of Venusport’s personnel.

“Somebody’s got to bring the Lorelei
back down, don’t they? Lord, the people
they put in responsible positions these
days. . . . Come on ! Get the cadmium out !”
And he was halfway down the stairs be-
fore Joe was on his feet.

PATCH

“And bring a roll of scotch tape!” he
shouted back.

What happened after that is pretty well
a matter of the records. Every telecast
carried the report for days. Pop Gillette
got aboard the liner by bringing the Lorelei
alongside. Then, with Joe holding her
steady as she went, Pop jumped across
the twenty feet of open space, scotch tape
in his space suit pocket, to the liner’s open
port.

Then he brought the liner down for a
tail landing, as pretty as you please.

I T WAS TEN MINUTES later that
Pop Gillette and Joe sat drinking their
Venusian wine again, watching the ground
crews welding a new plate on the liner,
a mile away across the Port.

“But how did you do it?” Joe asked.
“And why the scotch tape?”

Pop Gillette deftly poured a tumbler of
wine down his throat and reached for the
bottle.

“Simplest thing in the world. I used the

97

tape to stick a couple of bed sheets over
the hole, inside and out.”

Joe stared at him in puzzlement.
“Bedsheets? What for?”

Pop Gillette cast his eyes heavenwards
as for deliverance. “I’m sure glad I don’t
run a liner anymore. I might get some-
body like you for a co-pilot. I had to
have a mold, didn’t I ? You heard the pilot
say the patch had to be metal to stand
the pressure. Fifteen pounds to the inch
over a ten foot patch is a lot of pressure.
Well, after I had the sheets over the hole,
I turned it towards the sun, filled the mold,
and turned it around away from the sun.
The temperature drop in space did the
rest.”

Joe put his hand to his brow and glanced
at his wine glass suspiciously. “I vaguely
get what you’re talking about, but just
what did you make the patch out of?”
Pop Gillette chuckled wryly.

“The mercury, of course. Froze hard
as steel when I turned her away from the
sun. Perfect fit, too.”

Ill THE NEXT ISSUE...

RETURNS IN THE NOVEMBER PLANET STORIES

7 — Planet Stories — Fall

THE VIZIGRAPH

There’s so much to tell you this issue that we’ll

just start the ball rolling and duck out :

1) Starting with the next issue PLANET will ap-
pear bi-monthly, satisfying a long-standing
yowl from you faithful fen . . . We figure if
Velikovsky can slow down a planet, we can
speed one up ! And, kidding aside, we’re darned
grateful here at PS for the solid reader-sup-
port that encouraged us to make this move.
Thanks to you, and you too . . . from now on,
it’s PLANET every other month !

2) Attention, Vizigripers: PLANET’S new ad-
dress is 130 W. 42nd St., Ne\v York 18, N. Y.
Try to get your letters off within a week or so
after PS goes on the stands, huh? A lot of
good stuff is squeezed out of La Viz, simply
because it hits our desk about the same time as
do the advance copies, soggy from the press,
of the PS in which it might have appeared.
The bi-monthly issuance will cut this even
finer, so get the lead out . . . and incidentally,
the more mail we get, the better job we can do.
Yah, come on, all you associate editors!

3) There’s a story in this issue which w r e think
deserves a loud fanfaronade: THE SKY IS
FALLING by C. H. Liddell. Once in a very
long while the lucky editor receives a manu-
script cold, with no “big name’’ appended,
that lifts him up off his blase back-side with a
whoop. THE SKY IS FALLING is such a
story. Mr. Liddell writes with uncommon
power and clarity ; more, his work is most
wonderfully unjaded. You PS readers who’ve
had psychological training . . . opinions, please.

4) There’s been a lot of holler about covers. Well,
the babe-brawn-Bem cover is here to stay, see ?
We like it, see? C’est tout!

5) The announcement on p. 97 speaks for itself.
Better practise a few screams of glee before
looking.

6) And how do you like PLANET’s new look?

7) By way of a post script to Ray Ramsay, who
suggested a story on the scientific aspects of
reproduction . . . try MEEM, in this issue, Ray.
We strive to please.

So, to the pic awards. Remember, winners choose
illustrations from the issue in which their letters
appeared, not the issue they roasted or the issue
which announces their winnership. First place win-
ner chooses only one, and gets it. Winner number
two chooses two, in order of preference, because
No. 1 is likely to choose 2’s 1st choice, leaving 2
his 2nd choice. No. 3 picks 3 pic9, so that after 1
who won 1 has made off with it and 2 has chosen
2 but gotten only 1 too, there’ll be something left
for someone. Don’t ask us who.

First, place and show are: Robert Silverberg;
Marion Zimmer Bradley; A1 Weinstein.

Jerome Bixby

NO SACRIFICE TOO GREAT

Stanford, California

Dear Mr. Bixby :

Now that planet is no longer in the hands
of PLP, I’m taking the liberty of writing with a
few suggestions. Of course, Payne paid no atten-
tion to my pleas — and I’ve no real hope that you
will, either. However, read on —

First, the covers. Anderson should really be put
out to pasture. And don't get Bergey — lie’s even
worse. Hire Timmins, Rogers or Canedo. Or
Finlay. Toujours Finlay! (Three jours Anderson!
— Ed.) In general, the interior artwork is good.
A few turkeys, but by and large okay. One thing,
though. Tell the artists to quit trying to sex up the
stories and stick to the script. I love flesh as well
as the next one, but let's have a little accuracy.

98

I'h\ : i Schotutcld

AN INTERESTING bit of scientifictioniana, gang ... an imaginative artist — name
unknown— -neatly prophecies suspended mono-railroads; the year . . . 1906! A muni-
cipal system of this type was inaugurated in Wupperthal, Germany, fust before
World War I, but the idea didn't spread. Too bad.

99

100 PLANET

The brush-pushers might even read the stories
before illustrating them. I realize this is a radical
suggestion that will probably get me investigated
by Congress, but in the interests of a good planet
— no sacrifice is too great !

Now the writers. Point one — Bradbury. It has
gotten to the point now that anything Ray chooses
to palm off on the readers automatically stimu-
lates raves. This is a sad state of affairs. We have
suffered through his Martian Period, and now are
about to be subjected to a stream of tales about
kaput authors among the stars. Bradbury is at his
scintillating best in his tales of those hair-raising
children he used to write about. He has never ap-
proached the skill and feeling that went into his
HOMECOMING — a story that had everything.
Pathos, grace, irony and a real style. ZERO
HOUR was excellent. But these last few things of
bis have been hackneyed and badly done. Let Ray
return to the things he does well and have the good
taste to leave Tom Wolfe, Poe, and company alone
and in peace. If this be treason, make the bes(of it.

I am glad to see new writers appearing always
in Planet. It is a real pleasure to watch from
afar, as it were, the growth of a newcomer in the
field. Coppel, for example, is getting better with
each issue. His first piece — that horror about a
jinx ship — was about as hack as they come. The
second in the series ( ?), THE STARBUSTERS,
was better, but still far from good. Then came
RUNAWAY and CAPTAIN MIDAS and
FLIGHT FROM TIME— all bell ringers. He
slipped a bit on FIRST MAN IN THE MOON,
and has come back with a bang in WARRIOR
MAID OF MARS. This last is noteworthy for
having — to my knowledge, at least — the first
“alien” hero to appear on your pages in recent
times. Keep an eye on this boy, he’s going places.

Writers like Mullen, McDowell, and (short-
stuff) Dee are always acceptable. Margaret St.
Clair is good and competent. This is the regular
stuff that makes PLANET what it is. These
steady ones can compensate for the unevenness of
the newer writers. Keep them around.

Suggestion: Get some Azimov, Van Vogt,
Shiras and deCamp. It may cost you something,
but it will do the circulation worlds of good.

Conclusions: PLANET is a fine space-adven-
ture mag, but it could stand a shade of polish. I
don't mean for it to go long-hair. Just ease off
on the garish format and use a little better grade
of paper. Go on, what the hell ! Charge an extra
nickel and give the readers their money’s worth.
It will pay off in the long run.

It is too much to hope for that you could go
monthly? No? Then what about bi-monthly?
Surely bi-monthly. Every sixty days, a PLANET
STORIES ! That would be something to look for-
ward to, indeed it would. ( Start looking — Ed.)

Let me end with one last plea. During your stint
as editor of PS, do everything you can to take
science-fiction out of the area of the juvenile and
the comic-book. Buy stories with something like
thought in them and present them in an adult way.
The fans will thank you for it.

Sincerely,

Douglas Creighton

THIS, ON A BLUE MONDAY!

2%2 Santa Ana St.

South Gate, Calif.

Dear Editor :

Well, as I review planet stories down at
LASFS, I thought I’d drope you a line to tell you

STORIES

what’s been hapening. To you, Mr. Bixby, the
name Sneary may mean nothing . . . But there was
a day when it could strike tarror into the harts of
many a Editor and proof-reader. (Wei, ding our
cats and call us Pavlov, we sea what you meen!
— Ed.) And planet was the first to use a letter of
mine, so I feel a deep fonness for the dear old
raged pages . . . And so, as more active work in the
iner-circle of fandom took the time I use to spend
writting you, I was forced to stop. But nothing
has kept me from reading dear old P.S., and now,
I even subscribe to the thing, to asure my getting
my copy ahead of the hord.

The curent issue is up to planets usual standard
. . . Nothing as good as THE ROCKETTERS
HAVE SHAGGY EARS, but good . . . Bradbury
of course rates the best written story . . . His peo-
ple always seem to be so alive. Infact you can all
most feal sorry for them as he thinks up new ways
inwhich to torture and kill them off. There was
one slight flaw in this one though . . . Why didn’t
they climb under their life-raft, and escape the
rain, or even a metal plate from the wreck? But
even this doesn’t detract from it.

Maxwell’s duptacation idea ought to get a prise
for a fine idea, not developed. I’d of liked to seen
more of the mix up of ego’s. It is a perfict set up
for setuation comady. You might steal even more
from the book Four Sided Triangle and call it
The tzvo sided Square. The duplication of people
has been a subject touched on but lightly, and then
usually to from some sort of paradox.

I read through the lead novel with the usual
feeling of “I’ve been here before.” I guess these
Bourroughs type tales are a part of PS we will
neaver loose, no mater what we try . . . I guess if
they don’t get any worse than this time, I’ll keep
on enjoying them.

Speeking of enjoyment, we would down right
injoy having you, or any fans out this way, drop-
ping in on the 3rd Annual WESTERCON, which
the OUTLANDER SOCIETY is giving in L.A.,
June 18th, in the Knights of Pythias Hall, (3rd
floor) 617 Venice Blvd., Los Angeles, Calif. There
is no charge, and things start right at 10 AM. We
will have authors, and fans, auctions and speachs
on science-fictional subjects. It is a annual all day
Fan Conference, were the fans in this part of the
State get to gether, and rub elbows and conversa-
tion with the pro’s. We had 90 there last year, and
as this is the First time the Outlanders have
sponcered it, we hope to have twice that this year.
All fans are welcome, come earlly, and stay late
. . . For added information write Freddie Hershey,
6335 King Ave., Bell, Calif. (Luck, sirs!— Ed.)

As for letters. (Love’em) First to Silverberg
for his views on the Viz ... Second to Mrs.
Bradley, for her views on TRHSE, in the last
issue. (What’s this, both Bradley’s writting a let-
ter. Seems almost unfair, but the Boff Perry wrote
two letters one issue, so I guess this is O.K.) Oh,
give the Third to Weinstein, for a well written
letter, though I m not inclined to agree with him
on all points.

We wish to add, that in our estimation, Rodney
Palmer, like another gentalman named Palmer of
that city, has, to use a curent expession no doubt
familiar to both, rocks in his head. I’d like him
J°. Just try and prove eveyone believes in spirts
hie after death, etc. — Ha! You will have a lot
harder tune proving to me there are such things,
than I would proving to you that Rockets are
going. to lift man off Earth in the next five years,
t hat is, unless you believe in deros.

Yours,

Rick Sneary

THE VIZIGRAPH

101

FINE, WACKY PS

617 Miner Avenue
Seattle 4, Wn.

Dear Editor :

Welcome to the Chair, and I hope you got all
your shots first — BEM-fever serum, controversy
vaccine, anti-fanzine booster, etc. A good solid
selection, this first issue under the Bixby aegis
(you just got that aegis back from the cleaners,
didn’t you? It’s so nice and spotless — just wait,
though).

Wasn’t Bradbury on the wrong planet this time?
Or are we to expect a new series? He and Miss
St. Clair are the standouts of Summer ’50 (Hey,
“Standouts of Summer ’50’’ — a PS title if ever I
saw one! Now all I need is a story). The lady
does a neat job on — shall we say — well-proven
ideas.

Every reader has to tell the Ed how to do his
job, but I have only a few minor items. No beefs
on the stories, artwork, or untrimmed edges — the
mag has survived over ten years as is, so why
break up a winning combination? ( Love that man!
— Ed.) But the blurbs — those beautiful, breath-
less blurbs ! What say we try having them written
by someone who has read the stories? Might
even, if that works, try the same treatment for
the titles.

Paley to the contrary, let’s don’t, have a “fan
corner.” There must be others like myself, who
wearily trudge through the “fan departments,”
hopelessly looking for some sign of activity within
a reasonable distance. Apparently the necessary
combination of talent, spare time, money and
equipment hasn’t jelled around here. This is
strictly a private beef, but seriously, there are
enough fanclub-fanzine departments going now
to meet the demand, and we need all your inelas-
tic pages for stories. Yes, stories ! I may be eccen-
tric, but I buy stfmags for the reading material.

If your volume-and-issue numbering has been
consistent, this magazine must have started
around the fall of 1939, right? (The first PS was
dated Winter, ’39 — Ed.) In that case I guess I’ve
been with you from the start, except for part of
the war (glutton for punishment). Keep up the
fine wacky standard of PS and the Vizigraph,
and the next ten years should be as enjoyable as
the last ten.

Yours for more Bradbury and Brackett,

F. M. Busby

R. DEE SIMPLY TRIFFIC!

4 Spring Street,

Lubec, Maine

Dear Mr. Bixby :

Or can we possibly call you “Bix”? Or “JB”?
Anyhow, I got the flat package in the mail recently
and eagerly opened it. Let me again thank every-
body concerned for this original. The plates in
PS can’t do justice to the originals, can they?
Especially if the pics are by Alden McWilliams !

Now to the current issue of PS. Alfred Coppel
made a pretty good attempt at the classical PS
adventure-epic but despite his entertainingeffort,
it couldn’t match past epics by Fox, McDowell,
Fennel and other authors. But it was good though.
Hope he tries more like it too. But who was re-
sponsible for the mis-title and blurb? Oh, well,
ya gotta attract buyers. As long as the story
Dleases

St. Clair’s FLOWERING EVIL was only
mildly interesting, mostly because the idea itself
isn’t new. But orchids to her for the ending.

Bradbury’s DEATH BY RAIN is quite re-
freshing. Too bad the basic theme of the story is
obsolete now. Dust clouds, not rain, is the latest
and more likely theory. But nevertheless, I hope
RB has a half-dozen more stories in his files that
should be completed sooner or later and ... I hope
. . . sold.

I see William Oberfield has sold again. Good.
Shows how a fan (or ex-fan) can sell if he sticks
to it. Too few will stick. The idea was nice. Gim-
mick better. Gad, what an ending.

The first-person narrative in COLLISION
ORBIT was startlingly new-ish for some reason
or other. Probably because I’m more used to find-
ing them in detective novels and mags. Altlio I
have stopped reading them to any extent, a first-
person yarn somehow rings the bell with me, when
it is put over well enough. This one almost
wasn’t. But I am encouraged. How? you ask?
Well, somehow, the yarns / write are usually in
first-person too. But I’ll spare you for a while
yet.

Alfred E. Maxwell. Sounds familiar. Whether
it really is familiar or not, the story was good.
Ran smoother than most of the others this time.
Nice idea, that duplication. Like to see more by
Maxwell too.

MOON OF TREASON was undoubtedly the
best in the issue. I like McDowell’s writing. Goes
down smoothly (oops, thinking of a drink). Pie
usually has a novel and useful gimmick in his
yarns too. This time it’s the guy’s nictitating lids.
(Say “nictitating” five times, fast.) (So, it’s diffi-
cult?— Ed. ) Definitely MORE BY McDOWELL !

In Stan Mullen’s SUICIDE COMMAND a
more or less rare, these days, atmosphere was at-
tained, briefly, when they discovered the hole in
the little asteroid and the horror beyond the door.
Hints at things utterly, alienly horrible and fantas-
tic were the mainstay of the early interplanetary
yarns, many of them anyway, and all too few
times these days do we find them. Mullen, how-
ever, seems to have a knack for this touch and I
find it quite often in his yams.

Whoever Roger Dee might be, he is a good
yam spinner. This one was especially liked by
yours truly. Good basic idea, well handled and
triffic ending. Triffic, simply triffic ! Wonder who
he is . . .

Now... to YOU, dear Editor. Welcome and
all that . . . and as I once before mentioned, don’t
go tinkering with your typer. You, as do most
PS editors, have a great sense of humor and
promise to give any unwary fan-humorist a run
for his original, so please stay with us awhile.
Also, must be a great change from TUNGLE
STORIES to PLANET STORIES ! Anyhow, a
few hopeful suggestions concerning the art-work.
You could drop all the artists except McWilliams
and I’d be satisfied. But such an event being un-
likely, please do use McWilliams’ work more than
you did this time. Mayan isn’t bad, and neither is
Vestal when he has his better moments, which he
didn’t this time. Who did the pic for Mullen’s
yarn by the way? (Meilink—Ed.)

To the Vizigraph we happily prance.

Had to giggle at your by-play (or dialogue) in
Shirley Henderson’s letter. Things like that make
incipient humorists jealous ! Anyhow, the three •
Paul Ganley for No. 1 spot, Robert Silverberg for
No. 2 and Shirley Henderson for No. 3. And as
for Fredric Fdo, well, we have one of these char-
acters every once in a while. Everybody lets their
hair down once in a while. Not that I’d say that
people writing in to the Vizigraph are doing that
all of the time. But in bull sessions, in parties,'

102 PLANET

people on a drunk, etc., you’ll find a lot more so-
called childishness, drivel, etc., than the alleged
same in this column. Especially when there is so
little of it. Most letters are more or less construc-
tive criticism with the writers dressing it up a
bit. Anyone can have fun. Especially when it is not
harmful. And if Fredric Filo happens to deign to
attend the NORWESCON in Portland, Oregon
this September, he can talk it over with people
who write these letters. I also happen to plan on
attending. lie might find that these people ^ who
write this “childish ... asinine ... hogwash" m
their spare moments can probably give him quite
a lambasting in applied physics, atomic theory,
plot-building, etc., any number of things. Even
poker. (Yum! — Ed.)

Before I end this unintentionally long letter,
let me say I’m glad to know that PLANET
STORIES is going to be bi-monthly soon!

Ed Cox

HOUSE DIVIDED

Box 298
Tahoka, Tex.

Dear Ed :

An ancient scribe once put forth the theory that
a house divided against itself cannot stand. Heark-
en, then, to my tale of woe, and tell me, if tell me
you can, what magic ointment will cement to-
gether that which has been so rudely torn apart ?

Everything was going oh so smoothly until your
recent PLANET hit the stands. It looked inter-
esting. Its titles sounded intriguing. The cover was
beautiful. Can you blame me for tossing my last
two dimes at the salesgirl and hurrying home with
the Martian Warrior-Maid clutched tight to my
breast? (Lord, no! — Ed.)

The first wrong note sounded when I found
another copy of the same PLANET curled up on
the divan with the pride of my house, the joy of
my heart, the preparer of my infrequent meals!
Having just finished off the WARRIOR-MAID
OF MARS she was centering her attention upon
Beck’s COLLISION ORBIT. I was, for the
time being, an UNWELCOME TENANT.

Advancing the guarded opinion that I consid-
ered ALPHA SAY, BETA DO the best story in
the mag, my next conscious thought was that SUI-
CIDE COMMAND might have been a more ap-
propriate selection. Never in all my life had I
dreamed that a man could exist at such low in-
tellectual levels as I found myself occupying!

I admitted that the plot was older than my
grandfather’s great grandfather. That the com-
parative analysis of scientist versus floor-polisher
was another oldie. That split personalities was
nothing new in this age of psychology and psy-
chiatrists. That men have been falling in love
with women, and women with men, since time im-
memorial. That one of the parties to such love-
mating lias always taken the initiative. That if the
man didn’t save the woman, the woman must save
the man. I tried only to make the very minor point
that the story was well-written !

That, I fear, was a major mistake.

I am now thoroughly convinced that my own
opinion is of no value even to myself. In fact, I
now fully realize it to be a detriment !

And so, from the depths of my despair, I en-
treat you to salve my hurts by publishing only
such stories as may safely be called GOOD !

Woefully yours,

Roiiert A. Bradley

STORM* ^

LITERARY

Buckroe Beach, Va.

To : Editor Chrome Bixby
Dear Red :

Have read nothing more tlian the Visigraph and
not even all of that — Don’t know when I’ve en-
joyed anything as much as I have your editorial
comment. Suggest you keep up the present method
of commentary (You know, like this) — It will
allow you to make all the acrid, acrimonious,
pleasant or just plain funny statements you wish
and the brevity will keep you from boring either
yourself or us ... so far as I am concerned, you
could even say a bit more — I enjoy you.

In answer to a question; yes, I would like to
know PLP’s penmane ... (I don’t know whether
he’s a lion in literary circles yet or not, but my
lousay typing is making him one here.)

Comments on letters :

I don’t like people who don’t have Intelligence
enough to appreciate me and my kind — Tell me
Frederic, does Filo stand for . . . (Whup, whup . . .
veddy zi'itty, Stu, but CENSORED — Ed.)?

Ah yes, Zimmer ... So you’ve never read any
science in a science fiction magazine. Well, there
was some once. It was entitled “The Frame Con-
cept Theory.” It was primarily concerned with
the concept and use of macrocosmic and microcos-
mic mathematical number frames. I read the tiling
out of curiosity more than anything else, but to
my surprise, found immediate use for it in an
advanced calculus course . . .

WHO GOES THERE — originally a story
about the first world war, I forget who by— Seems
to be a popular title.

As for the stories themselves, rate ’em your-
self. You’ve read ’em. I haven’t.

Bye for now —

Stuart A. Line

THE SAGE SPEAKS AGAIN

Dear Mr. Bixby :

It has indeed been many a wear}' aeon since I
last had a letter in the Vizi. I have been leading a
life of Chastity, Celibacy, and Boredom ... a bar-
ren, sterile, stefless existence. Few and sparse
have been the letters I have dashed off to the proz.
But now,. I can contain myself no longer and must
dash a letter off to deah ole PS.

And we have a new editor among our ranks,
eh? Welcome, thrice welcome in the Name of
Allah! You have a nice uncluttered, unpretentious
little mag here, let’s hope you do well by it. Could
stand some improvement. F’rinstance the Vizi-
graf. For the last several munts it has been the
stomping ground of scientific discussions, racial
prejudice, vicious back-biting feuds, and others of
their ilk. Gone are the vastly amusing, entertain-
ing letters of yesteryear. . . gone are the Giffords,
the Asimovs, the Lessers, the Shaws, the Olivers,
the Kennedys, the Snearys, the — yes ! the Carters,
and in their place : Sigler. Cox. What a depraved
set of substitutes! Mr. Bixby, let’s make the Vizi
as interesting and entertaining as it used to be,
back in the days when PLANET had the best dam
letter-column in the proz. We can do it, boys !

I neglected to write last issue, but I should
have said something about Bradbury’s wonderful
FOREVER AND THE EARTH, which was the
best thing he’s done for old Fiction House since
the memorable PILLAR OF FIRE. FATE was
really superb : an example of the sort of prose
Brad is quite capable of writing, but too seldom

THE VIZIGRAPH

does. That yarn was so compelling that I had to
go and re-read Wolfe’s OF TIME AND THE
RIVER, which contains the passage from which
Brad got his title. PLANET bumbles along month
after month, printing second rate space-opera in
the main, but boy ! when you do get a good yarn
it is really good!

Best story in the Summer issue was possibly
the Coppel novel, and probably best only because
of its length. I have an idiosyncracy of preferring
long stories to short. ’S’funny. The story was en-
tertaining and had lots of nice wham-socko-boom-
yer-dead action. Colorful. But it couldn’t begin to
come up to the Brackettale. Hint ! Not bad, tho,
in fact pretty good in its own way.

Ray Bradbury’s effort was a distinct let-down
after his fine story the ish before. When Brad
writes good he writes very good, but when he
louses one up it really reeks. DEATH-BY-RAIN,
I fear, fell into the latter classification. Stanley
Mullen had a fairly intriguing short, and UN-
WELCOME TENANT had a quite clever idea,
albeit one I have seen before, and in PLANET
too. Qood, tho.

All in all the ish was something below average.
With a new editor at the helm, perhaps things
will start looking up. I’d like to see some more by
Leigh Brackett and Henry Kuttner, of course
more Bradbury, and if you could lure Edmond
Hamilton into the fold I wouldn’t complain. A
new cover artist might be a help. Your interior
artists are competent, hardly outstanding, but
competent. One could dream of Bok, Cartier,
Bonestell and Rogers, but leave us not be so un-
worldly. Sich things are impossible.

It might be worth-while to reinstate the P.S.
Feature Flash, always one of PLANET’s more
interesting features. Only this time alternate, a
thumbnail sketch of an author, then a fan, than an
artist, then author, et cetera. You might lengthen
the Editor’s squib at the head of the Vizi into a
regular honest-to-gosh editor’s page, if you like.
Then we could hear about stories forecoming
and new departments and the like. I think every
pro should have something of that sort.

Anyway, welcome Mr. Bixby, and best luck with
future issues !

Lin Carter

“The Sage of St. Pete”

METAPHYSICAL ALLIANCE

501 East Lincoln,
Wellington, Kans.

My Dear Mr. Bixby :

I call you Mister Bixby for the sheer originality
of it, as you have probably been by this time ad-
dressed in every anagrammatic form to which
your initials adapt themselves.

The Summer 1950 issue of PLANET stacks
up like this. Ray Bradbury, as usual coming thru
with one of his seemingly plotless stories, which
never the less has a distinctive appeal of its own.
MOON OF TREASON, and SUICIDE COM-
MAND both deserve a word in their favor,
though both had loose ends that were not tied
into the story thread. UNWELCOME TEN-
ANT, Bradbury again ?

The rest of the stories were unimpressive, with
the exception of FLOWERING EVIL and
WARRIOR MAID OF MARS. These two are
feeble, and I feel inclined to debate whether
either is STF. I might also add that WARRIOR
MAID is precisely the type of stuff which will
drive fan and fen away from the newsstand in

103

flocks. ( Disagree . . . PS, almost the last berth of
occasional Ye Olde Cliff-hanger Stfc, is doing
right well — Ed.)

Enough of the incidentals, now to the most
important part of the magazine ; VIZIGRAPH.

Best letter, A1 Weinstein, laying out Lucifer.
Just one comment, Al. Don’t you think that "hav-
ing a God” is simply the process of worshipping
some particular quality in oneself ?

What happened to the address on Shirley Hen-
derson’s letter? (Not enclosed — Ed.) Whatever
it was, it caused me to spend hours going thru the
Hendersons in the Wichita Phone Directory,
bothering Hell out of innocent and completely un-
suspecting people. Result? Nil !

Please inform Miss Henderson that if she
would like to get in with a group interested in
■writing STF and modern literature she can con-
tact me at the above address.

Her, M iss Henderson’s, definition of STF, has
that particular twist to it that could mean she is
a girl who is concerned with more than whether
her lipstick is on straight.

I agree, STF is a state of mind. But, not the
same state of mind in everyone who reads it. It is
however, an outgrowth from the desire to be, or
the conviction that one is, unique, different. Which
is true in the sense of individual difference. But,
in the overall aspect, looking at the human race
with the eyes of the philosophers — “the officer’s
lady, and Rosy O’Grady, are sisters under the
skin.”

In other words, you and I differ in the respect
that we do not have the same experiences, or the
same (consequent) desires, per se. Nor do you
and I have the same amount of energy to expend
toward the attainment of those desires.

We are similar in that we must eat, and sleep,
work and play, love and be loved ; in the fact that
we fear what we do not understand, logicize and
justify our actions to ourselves. And, if we are
mature, we attempt by realizing and comparing
these similarities in each other to understand a
little more of the people about us.

So we see that the STF fan is actually reach-
ing, thusly into himself, forming a metaphysical
alliance with the world. He is attempting, not to
operate thru similarity to others, but thru his own
individual difference.

Perhaps STF is somewhat of a bible to the
Fan. He could do worse. But, nevertheless I main-
tain, that any literary form, STF included, must
be analyzed thru its readers and writers, and what
particular fulfillment they find within it.

E. A. McKinley

WANTED: A SUITABLE ANSWER

107 Hayes Street
Seattle 9, Washington

Dear Jerome :

I have enjoyed the Vizigraph of late with the
discussions of this and that and especially the
creation of the universe. I thought I would write
and put in my thoughts on the subject. A subject
like that can be argued for years without getting
anywhere. You just keep going in circles and
never find a suitable answer.

How old is the Earth? How old is the sun?
The galaxy? The Universe? Nobody knows. The
age of the Earth is estimated at so many million
years by eminent scientists who base their esti-
mates upon the disintegration of uranium. Uran-
ium has a half life of 4.6 billion years, or a whole
life of 9.2 billion years. (Mephitic physics , Buryi

104 PLANET

— Ed.) Since there is still uranium present on the
Earth and in the sun and in other suns, they can’t
have existed for more than 9.2 billion years! Yet
everyone agrees that the Universe has lasted for
billions of years. How come there’s uranium left?
Has the Universe been in existence for less than
9.2 billion years? What was before that time?
Was that a time? (Boy, WAS it! — Ed.) Etc.

I’m an agnostic. Perhaps some of your readers
can tell me.

The best story in the mag was DEATH-BY-
RAIN. The rest were good, but I liked that the
best. Let’s have more Brackett, Bradbury, and
artists that read the stories before drawing illos
of them.

Sincerely,

Buryl Payne

OL' DUSTY ATOMIC BOMB

546 Ellis

Wichita 9, Kansas

Dear Editor :

I am glad to see that PLANET has acquired
a new editor. It may be that the magazine will
improve in quality now, as for a long time it’s
been the same old tripe.

1 thought that the cover novel in the present
issue was excellent for it dealt with a problem as
old as humanity itself. That is, when an old and
decaying culture meets up with a newer and more
progressive culture, what should they do about it ?
Shall they act like little children and die rather
than accept the newer concepts or shall they act
like men and begin to build anew upon what the
newer culture has to offer. The hero was torn
between these two extremes. He realized that his
world was dying because of its inability to meet
its problems yet he was afraid to accept that
which was better. The conflict he faced before he
could reconcile the two made a good story.

The cover illustration was better than most of
them have been but whoever did the interior pic-
ture should have read the story first. It seems as
if he just can’t leave any duds on his dames.

I just couldn’t get interested in Bradbury’s.short
story. He may be able to write but it seems that
all his stories blithely ignore some matter that no
intelligent author should overlook. According to
Bradbury it never quit raining on the planet,
Venus, which would be a violation of natural law
as anybody should know. Rain can only fall when
sufficient water has evaporated to saturate the air.
If it were always raining there could be no evapo-
ration and hence no rain. How silly can some
authors get ?

The story, THE ENORMOUS WORD, was
rather interesting but why do they always have to
do everything the hard way? They had to labor
like the dickens to make an atomic bomb to blast
the invaders when old man TNT could have done
the job in a fraction of the time. It would be per-
fectly easy to use aircraft with steam or Diesel
power and mechanical controls or even some form
of jet or rocket in which the ignition was accorm
plished by an ordinary flame to drop heavy bombs
on the base or even to fire light cannon at the
ships.

If it were desirable to use some other method
it would be possible to use long range bombard-
ment with heavy guns placed under cover of dark-
ness or even do it with such weapons as the 105
m.m. howitzers drawn by steam or Diesel en-
gines. As a last resort a raid by a few regiments
of troops armed with automatic rifles, demolition

STORIES

grenades, bazookas, and a few fifty calibre ma-
chine guns firing armor piercing shells oould do a
pretty good job. After all, it lias been done before.
But that wouldn’t sound as good so the atomic
bomb has to be hauled out and dusted off.

The other stories were just so-so. How about
some more interesting letters in the Visigraph and
I don’t mean the, ‘Heh, hell, ain’t I the dope?’
type, either.

Respectfully,

Edwin Sigler

1) Oberficld’s alietu ships were “ able to detect
the slightest unauthorized action on the ground
below” — which kills your bombardment/ armed-
raid theory — and 2) the aliens could by pressing a
button in their Sahara stronghold “ bring quick
death to every single Earthman’—thus the neces-
sity for a weapon swift and deadly ( and unob-
trusively made ready) as the A-bomb.

Tsk.

ROMULUS. THE BLUE BEM

1455 Townsend Ave.

New York 52, N. Y.

Dear Bix :

I’ve been walking around in sort of a stupor (as
usual), thinking about what to write in this Vizi-
letter. I could tell you about Romulus, the Blue
BEM who dictates my letters and eats hot iron
pyrites, but Rommy is a sensitive soul and doesn’t
like publicity. Then again I might comment on
how corny are the efforts of various Vizifans to
convince us of their erudition, but I guess there
would be a scarcity of orig votes 'round my way
for a while. Of course, there's the old standby of
writing a story, let us say, about the Ghu-Slob-
berers in the Venusian slime marshes, but maybe
I can sell that idea to MESSY HORROR or
something. Therefore, I have but one recourse
left. I must comment on the latest issue of PS!

I realize this will come as a shock. After wad-
ing through masses of missives, you have come to
one which talks not about Brackett, not about
Null-A, not even about religion, but about
PLANET STORIES!

But before I go further, let me offer my con-
dolences to the vacant space that was Paul Payne.
And, in case you should feel your dimensional
hold slipping, kindly inform Malcolm Reiss that
I AM AVAILABLE.

Coppel’s WARRIOR-MAID OF MARS was
pretty good, but what, pray tell, is a “barbarian
worlds novel” ?

DEATH-BY-RAIN was fine. Not in the class
of FOREVER AND THE EARTH, but fine,
still.

The rest of the issue, save for the swell St.
Clair story, was about average. I thought the
cover was pretty miserable. Anderson has nerve,
at least. He signed it this time! This cover bore
quite a resemblance to some forty-odd other
PScovers, though.

This science-vs.-religion feud has gone far
enough. What’s it doing in La Vizi, anyhow?
And what has become of the famed two-page
rule? Both Ganley and Weinstein transgressed
this ish. Give Ganley a pic, anyway, for a good
letter. Also Bob Silverberg. Give Weinstein a
kick in the astral body (or as some no doubt witty
stfauthor recently stated in a fanmag ((only
Fiction House puts out promags)), the asteroid)
(Yuk~Ed.) for filling La Vizi with drivel. Can’t
think of anyone ’cept me to vote the third pic to,
so won’t vote further.

105

THE VIZIGRAPH

Roger Dee is a house pseudonym ! Roger Dee is
a house pseudonym ! Roger Dee is a house pseu-
donym ! (Get lost . . . it’s . ’s private and

personal nom-de-plume, not a house name. In-
triguing, wha t ? — E d . )

Having made sure you won’t print my letter, I
continue —

How’s about wringing another story out of
Charles Harness? If I have to wait much longer,
I may decide to become a poor man’s Van Vogt,
myself. I’ve given you fair warning. (Noted—
Ed . )

Why doesn’t PS run more by the big name au-
thors. Following is a list of my favorites, who
I’d like to see in PLANET. I've scrambled the
names a bit so that the big shots at Fiction House,
who think JUNGLE STORIES is the only other
mag running fantasy, won’t be disillusioned. Any-
way, they are : A. Hubbard Van Sturgeon, Theo-
dore DeMacdonald, Murray Vogtimov, Damon
Wish, Lester Del Brown, and. Henry Moore
Hampadokent Hastgarth.

Yours 'til PS runs parapsychological articles,

Morton D. Paley

PROF IS A FAN

2711 La Salle Street
Racine, Wisconsin

Dear Jelly Bean :

_ I really should be writing a theme for English
Comp instead of hacking out this article (see
what I go through for dear old PS), but since
my prof is also a stfan (wonder of wonders) if
he sees this in the next issue of PLANET he
might be inclined to forgive the lateness of my
theme — I hope !

Oh, A1 Weinstein, tch, tch, tch. Before you ac-
cuse anyone of being a fanatic always check to
see that you aren’t going off the far end yourself.
I won’t say much about Al’s letter except to reply
that in certain places he appears to get as fanatical
at one extreme as he accuses “Sathanas” of getting
at the other. What. A1 apparently doesn’t realize
is that there is a cold, scientific, logical explana-
tion of God which does reconcile science and reli-
gion. I don’t want to go into that explanation here
for fear of bringing down the wrath of various
assorted bishops, Popes, ministers and other mem-
bers of religious groups, but if A1 or anyone else
is interested my address is sitting at the top of
this letter.

But enough of the profound, leave us turn to the
trivial.

OH-HO! We’re getting MODEST are we.
The usually valiantly-battling (always valiantly-
battling) femme on the cover now has a filmy
negligee to hide her near-nudeness — pretty soon
you’ll have her decked out in monk’s cloth (per-
ish the thought). (And bury it deep — Ed.) On
the other hand, Anderson’s BEM seems to be ap-
proaching the opposite extreme: if he doesn’t
leggo the aforementioned modestly-attired lady’s
shield and grab his sagging britches, said britches
will soon be hugging said BEM's ankles, which,
I should think, would greatlv hinder the poor little
BEM.

McDowell, as usual, came through with the
thud-and-blundcr in the best of tradition; his
MOON OF TREASON was the best story in
the issue, bor my money' McDowell is one of the
best writers you have: what plots, what action
. . . what women ! ! ! (Why don’t you write a book,
Emmett; everyone else seems to be doing it,)
For some reason Bradbury didn’t click this issue—
perhaps because his last story was so outstand-

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106 PLANET

ing— so he hits a high third, with Margaret St.
Clair’s FLOWERING EVIL a lagging second.
That ending of hers got me, I almost choked.
(Don’t say it!) Why doesn’t someone take away
Roger Dee’s typewriter ribbon? His style isn’t
bad but his plots are lousy. I guessed the whole
story before I was past the first page. Now, I
have written an excellent story that I’m sure
you’d . . . (Yeah . . . and fast! — Ed.)

Oh well, On to La Vizi ! My dear Larry Roth-
stein, you just don’t understand. PLANET’S
covers aren’t supposed to illustrate a story.
PLANET’s covers are symbolic! The hero is grit-
ting his teeth because he is afraid his false chop-
pers will fall out, and that stuff on his playsuit
isn’t salad at all, it’s the remains of a green
Martian turkey that the hero ate raw in a san-
crosant ceremony the night before. The pigsticker
in his belt wasn’t very sharp and the turkey splat-
tered. Now the girl holding the glowing sphere
stands for . . . um . . . er . . . why don’t you ask Sal-
vador Dali what she stands for? (There’s an idea,
Ed; get Dali to paint your covers. Then you’d
have an excuse.)

If Morton Paley thinks PLANET’s shorts are
wonderful he ought to see MY shorts — they’re
green with purple flowers and little yellow butter-
flies. What’s this? Do I see a hint of PLANET
becoming bi-monthly? Oh rapture! Oh joy! (Oh
yoo hoo, you with the shorts! — Ed.) Switch on
the overdrive men, PLANET rides again !

And now at the risk of being prosecuted for
plagarism, I shall dedicate the following poem to
PLANET’s budding poet-lauriet, Wilkie Conner
(who I see voted for me — thanks, Wilk) :

He’s a poet,

And doesn’t know it,

But his feet show it —

—They’re Longfellows ! . . . Kyuck, kyuck,
kyuck.

(He got ’em wet,

They’d be wet yet,

But John he met—

— John Drydcrn! . . .yerp,_yerp, yerp. — Ed.)

Originals to Ganley, Miss Shirly Henderson
(Miss? Did she say Miss? . . . Well, well, well!),
and Mad Marion.

Bruce Hapke

P.S. You did a swell job on your first issue.
Keep the old interPLANETary tradition roaring.

Seriously, Bruce — and Paley, too — we’re always
looking for new writers. So try. If they’re good
stories, we’ll buy ’em, if they’re good stories.

WE STILL LOVE OUR COVERS!

308 W. Clinton St.

Elmira, N. Y.

Dear Jerry :

Congratulations on your new seat of thorns,
brickbats and flowers. May you have a long reign
and a profitable one for PS, including a bi-
monthly issuance. Incidentally, please bear with
my handwriting. I know it’s pretty bad, but type-
writers are out of range at present.

Having seen, rather unexpectedly, the very
welcome sight of my letter in Viz, I must take
pen in hand and cry "battle.” Despite your love of
your covers, couldn’t you do something to force
your artists into reading the stories they are try-
ing to illustrate? Even the blurb for the story was
wrong! I like PS, otherwise I wouldn’t be a sub-

STORIES

scriber, but gibberish, either verbal or pictorial,
nauseates me. Where, oh where in the magazine
does a woman wield a sword? Where, oh where
does a fight show up containing a woman and a
man defending themselves against savages armed
with guns and Death’s Head guardsmen using
swords? In comparison, the cover with which I
took exception in my last letter was a veritable
hunk of truth. By all means let us be artistic, but,
at the same time, let us show some consideration
for logic.

Which last leads me to a letter written by one
Rodney Palmer, who has all his wires short-cir-
cuited almost beyond repair. Where did he ever
dream up the idea that fantasy is possible and
science-fiction impossible? His definition or ex-
planation of why stf is impossible is as fantastic
as some of Lovecraft’s wildest flights of fancy. I
can only conceive that this fan is of very recent
vintage, that he has never heard of Robert Hen-
lein, Anson McDonald (Latter’s the former —
Ed.), Don A. Stuart, Hugo Gernsback, Isaac Azi-
mov, and dozens more who have been writing S-F
in the past two decades that I have been a fan.
Is it necessary to write a story of the future and
include space-travel? Let him read FINAL
BLACKOUT and SIXTH COLUMN for an-
swer. Is it necessary to deal entirely with he-men
adventurers roaming the universe? Let him read
BEYOND THIS HORIZON and THE HU-
MANOIDS for answer. (Ironsmith zvas plenty
he-man . . . with brains, of course — Ed.) Anyone
who claims that everyone believes in spirits and
life after death is contradicting a long history of
atheism and agnosticism. In conclusion, order this
man one large raspberry in spades !

On to the attack! Mr. Ramsay is also, or should
I say must be also, one of these Johnny-come
lately’s to S-F. Just one author has refuted his
entire presentation on how future civilizations
are portrayed. Maybe he never heard of Robert
Heinlein and his history of the future and the
stories which evolved from that history SIXTH
COLUMN was sociology, through religion, in
action. BEYOND THIS HORIZON was gene-
tics completely. If these readers would only do a
little back-tracking on what has been published
they wouldn’t stick their necks out so far all the
time. His plaint about musicology is valid, I
think, except for one story which contained a
figment of it in passing. It appeared in one of the
competition and has since been included in an
anthology.

Have been brought up short at this point by
realizing that I’m writing a book. However,
gotta write more yet, just have to !

The stories this isstie were not easy to grade.
Being the addict that I am, I can never reallv tell
how I want to grade a story because I ushally
enjoy them all very much. These wonderful fans
who can sit down and separate the worth of one
story from that of another incite huge gahs of
envy in me. It could be that I have read too many
of them too fast to be able to pin one down and
say I liked it just a little better than the rest.
However, I can say that MOON OF TREASON
was a little different from most mutant stories
and I would like to see sequels to it. Ray Brad-
bury can, when he wants to, write stories with
atmosphere like no one in S-F today. This little
short was good.

I think I have wearied you by now so I will
shut this ink fountain off by saying,

Best of luck,

Larry Rothstein

ANOTHER ONE?

THE VIZIGRAPH

10 7

320 Stenzel Street
N. Tonawanda, N. Y.

Dear Mr. Bixbv :

I writ a letter to Payne L. Paul one day long
ago, and he didn’t print it. Was I disappointed?
No! I’ve always been this color. Now I seen
•jforementioned editor has faded into nothingness
ilid one Jerome Bisquik has taked over post. (We
rose to the occasion — Ed.) “This is good’’ I spoke
to myself, “I will write this fellow letter.’’ I have
now done so.

Cover was most pretty on current issue. Four
characters compose the frightening scene. (1)
Chinese girlie with gauzy chain-mail. Blue belt
pretty too! (2) villain in foreground with red
torso and orange legs. His hat is a Daniel Boone
original, no doubt. (3) villain in background. This
is the most modest fellow of the group, also, he
must use ox-blood complexion plan. (4) hero.
Cheater ! He uses two swords. He is lost my vote.

I readed the Vizigraph also, but I couldn’t get
the plot. In any case, the Buck Rogers illo went
with the story. There were also some other stories
in the mag the last time I cast fevered eyes upon
it, but I will not mention them, with the exception
of DEMISE BY PRECIPITATION by a certain
Brad Raybury. This is poor for Mr. Raybury.
If he continues to write like that, he’ll probably
be voted into the editor’s chair, and then you, Mr.
Jerome, will be the one who is out in the rain.
Also, you is traitor to PLANET STORIES. I
have see certain story, by name AND ALL FOR;
ONE, which is saying under it, where is usually
put name of author, Jerome Bixby. Donnerwet-
ter! (This is foreign word which means “What
is Bixby doing here?”)

I am seen you send pics to best letters in issue.
I hereby make vote. Send all three to girl who
has writed letter on back cover which speaks “I
went from size 16 dress to a size 12.” That is the
sort of thing it is making me a great happiness
to hear.

Goodbye to you now, Mr. Bisquik. Don’t make
P.S. a bi-monthly, whatever you do. Once every
three months is enough. I can always go back to
Shaver, you know. Hee hee heeheenee.

Love and kisses,

Al Leverentz

Oh, well , . . there’s one in every deck. Say, Al,
was your mother ever frightened by a Snearyt

FOR SHAME!

418 High Street
Closter, N. J.

Dear Jet Bomb :

I don’t know why you fellows persist in putting
out the Summer issues of planet stories just as
the last snows are melting off the ground, but
again said magazine arrived on time, dated three
months in the future. It’s very perplexing.

Ver3'.

So was this month’s cover. The heroine’s negli-
gee or whatever it is she's wearing, looks as
though it hasn’t been washed in years. Why . . .
Why you can hardly see through it ! For Shame !

PS is slipping. This issue you printed three
readable stories, two of which said nothing and
not very well. McDowell always writes a good
adventure yarn, but what has hoppened to those
wonderful novels he used to write with the titles
with colors in them? MOON OF TREASON
was average. Just.

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108

PLANET STORIES

SUBMARINE WARFARE, as foreseen in 1883 by an again-unknown artist. This sketch
predates by five years the launching of the first naval submarine, which, to our way
of thinking, makes it valid enough scientifictioniana. Note the frogmen on bitty
saddle-subs, more of an innovation. Our favorite is the stiff-backed Don Quixoteish
character in lower left . . . one feels somehow that he should be tilting with a water-
wheel. Incidentally, all credit for procuring these pics belongs to Planet's Leptor-

rhinian Pipistrelle.

Margaret St. Clair got by using a plot that has
been an old faithful for years and years. Usually
the plant gets to eat the human though. Something
like that should happen to Miss St. Clair.

Raving about Ray Bradbury’s story would be
a useless procedure. Every one else will probably
go into raptures over it, but I shall control myself
and merely say it was great, wonderful, super,
excellent, unforgettable, slobber, terrific ! ! !

Why does that wonderful man always write

such good stories for you good folks. Either Ray
writes a classic (hate that word), or a near-clas-
sic, or else he writes a dud. In the past year he’s
been writing quite a few duds, but has never
palmed one off on you. I guess you’re not one of
those editors, who, enchanted by The Master’s
name, buy everything submitted without even
reading the darn things. Anyway, DEATH-BY-
RAIN was excellent.

It was kinda cute to read, right after Ray’s ex-

109

THE VIZIGRAPH

cellent short, such a poor imitation of his writing.
THE ENORMOUS WORD deserves a large
belch, such as the one in the story.

La Vizi was pretty good this month, but the
subject of debate is pretty much out of place.
I’m sorry I had a hand in it. No letter section
should be devoted to the tearing down of another’s
religious beliefs. It is not healthy for either side.
I am an agnostic, but I see no point in trying to
shatter the spiritual foundations of a person who
has found his or her answer. If they want to
worship God, Science, Nothing, or themselves, let
them be. They are hurting no one. But by constant
criticism we are hurting each other and ourselves.
Let’s all try to define Science-fiction or something.
(No, no . . . let’s drop that TOO ! — Ed.)

Somebody wanted to know what progress is, I
think they were asking me. I think progress, in
the case of a civilization, is beneficial change. If
you don’t agree with my contention that religion —
in the past, mind you — has hindered progress,
write me. The Vizigraph is not the place.

Whatever happened to Gardner F. Fox and his
super-human heroes. Hmmm? When do we get
some more of Brackett? ( January ish — Ed.)
Howabout a novel by E. Hamilton?

Useless questions ! !

Well, anyway,

I remain very truly mine,

David M. Campbell

PRYOR ASKS FOR IT . . .

363^2 Amar Street
San Pedro, Calif.

Dear Mr. Bixby :

Nobody got it, huh? I’m referring to the title
THE ROCKETEERS HAVE SHAGGY EARS.
There were numerous mentions of it, derogatory
and otherwise, but nobody made the obvious con-
nection.

Have none of your erudite readers branched out
far enough to read the hilarious works of Robert
J. Casey? One of his books was titled “The Can-
noneers Have Hairy Ears.” Has a familiar ring,
doesn’t it?

According to Casey, he picked the phrase for
its euphony. Maybe Bennett thought it would be
an equally good title, slightly paraphrased, for a
space opera — and it wasn’t bad.
t As long as I’m using your time, how about a
timid query which will probably bring down the
wrath of fandom on my hapless head. What’s so
good about this Ray Bradbury? (CRASH ! — Ed.)

I’ve patiently perused his stuff, yawned at the
ending, and gone on with the magazine for years
now. Yet, each following issue brings slavering
screeches for more from the alleged readers.
Why ?

He takes a tired old earth-bound plot, juices it
up with lots of dialogue and word-pictures (a la
the 1920 Hemingway school “the rain spattered
on the sidewalk like machine gun bullets”), then
transplants it to Mars or Venus and it's “WON-
DERFUL.” Why?

It may be sacrilege to suggest it, but if the
Bradbury lovers would look over some of the ex-
patriate writers' work of the '20s they could find
reams of the stuff that Bradbury is peddling — but
earthbound. Maybe it’s better on Venus where the
rain cuts and hacks.

My three cents worth,

Wayne Pryor

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PLANET STORIES

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P.O. Box 877,

Grand Central Station,
New York 17, N. Y.

Dear Jerry :

You too should be awarded a pic . . . the one on
the bottom of page 95 of the Summer PLANET,
that’s the one I mean; and you can have half of
it after I’ve used the other half for stuffing the
crack in my window-payne, (Gad! that name
again?) which suffered dire affects due to my
tossing the Summer P.S. at same as the after-
maths of an uncontrollable rage which seized this
erudite person when he noted that his fine, long
and edifying epistle was lacking in fandumb’s
hack corner, La Phizzi.

But to business, and don’t ask me what type of,
or I might give it to you after what you did or
didn’t do to my litter. But hearken ! Why should
I complain? Though my epistle was not there,
ample revenge was taken upon your pointed pate
with the appearance of the very outstanding story,
COLLISION ORBIT, written by CLYDE
BECK, one of my many foremost and intelligent
relatives . . . and all Becks are intelligent for that
matter. And though I may seem rather biased, the
above really was the best story in the issue.

But in order of merit, the other tales fell in the
following category :

WARRIOR MAID OF MARS, by Coppel, falls
in second place as being a fine but very stereotyped
composition of a very old theme; could’ve been
hackier though if not for the crafty pen of author
Coppel, who seems the sort of author who can
make the worst tale appear as one of the best.
FLOWERING EVIL— a typical Maggie St. Clair
yarn, written in the spirit of her “Oona & Jick”
tales of yore . . . and I’ve often wondered why all
her stories, although well written, keep on having
the similar style as her past ones do ! ! Third Place
for this ’un.

DEATH-BY-RAIN was a fine Bradbury yarn,
and though not his best, was good readin’ stuff;
but how’s about having our fair-haired boy of the
pulps do a lead novel for a change ! That’d be a
welcome treat. 4th for this one. And for the sake
of conserving space, the others go like this :
MOON OF TREASON, by McDowell, 5th.
UNWELCOME TENANT, by Dee, 6th.

THE ENORMOUS WORD, by Oberfield, 7th.
ALPHA SAY, BETA DO, by Maxwell, 8th.
SUICIDE COMMAND, by Stan Mullen, 9th.

And as we come to the letter section of the
latest P.S., I cannot help but note the prattlings of
Fred Filo, who feels that all such letter writers as
we could never contribute to the enlightenment
of the world’s masses, or so I gather from his
baleful demeanor. On some points of his disser-
tation though, I can’t help but fully agree with
him, since, if it were not for the fear that one’s
letter wouldn’t get printed if one did not conform
to certain standards of idiocy or form in lauding
the contents of each issue properly, all letters
would, in general, have more of an air of authen-
ticity and interest in their format ; but there seems
to exist the stigma of doubt in all of our minds
when e’er anyone of us takes pen in hand and
attempts to be original and speak straight from
the shoulder, since, “We gotta sound pleasant
when writin’ letters to the little man behind the
big desk.” Suh ! I’ll have you-all know that all
this has the earmarks of a subversive form of
dictatorship about it . . . the policy I mean. ( Policy ,
hell l We’ve never called for goo, and never
intend to! — Ed.) But I’ll disagree with Filo that

THE VIZIGRAPU

111

La Vizi’s epistles are “stupid trash,” since it is
quite evident that he hasn’t taken a gander at some !
of the other alleged litter-columns of other zines,
else he’d know that one doesn’t have to praise “all
of the stories of P.S. all of the time” in order to
have a letter printed, though I could be wrong on
that point, and I’m NOT referring to the one
atop your head either. (Oo-o-o, you made a
funny! — Ed.) One thing I’d welcome, and prob-
ably would be most relieved over, and tliat w'ould
be in having confidence that if a letter HAS
something to say, and would be considered of
general interest to others, why not print ’em in-
stead of scrapping ’em? And what of it if there
is a cuss word or more included! You could al-
ways delete it or substitute it one way or the
other ... I think it would be one of the most wel-
come changes ever to be made in any STF pub-
lication if we can show the other mags that there
DOES exist an unbiased and warm fan-letter-
column wherein you DON’T necessarily have to
praise the stories, rave about the artists and shout
about how-wonder ful-the-editor-is-looking.

Before we leave the cold shores of Manhattan,
let us cast a few fond votes on M. Zimmer Brad-
ley, Conrad Johnson and Rodney Palmer... and
many thanks for remembering me, Rod!

And with the strumming of our ukeleles, we bid
adieu until we sail back again next Spring to buy
the Fall P.S. — Egad ! Wot a seasonal time warp ! !

Calvin Thos, Beck
Pres, of the American
Science-Fantasy Society

To repeat, there’s no "letter policy” here at PS.
Any interesting, well-written letter has an odds-
on chance of hitting print, whether it raves or
rants. Only requirements are: double-space it on
one side of the sheet, and keep it down to tivo
pages or thereabouts . . . rvhich, chum, is hozv
come we chopped two pages out of your present
opus.

WEAKEST LINK

201 Veterans Village
Canton, New York

Dear Mr. Bixby :

Welcome to the Siege Perilous for the little
time tliat will be allotted to you before your de-
coocooning into an author or something.

The summer issue of PLANET is a great
pleasure — every story is worth far more than the
two and a half cents it cost me — in fact there are
bits in each worth dollars. Margaret St. Clair’s
FLOWERING EVIL is her usual gem of re-
sourcefulness in humans in the future, and Brad-
bury’s DEATH-BY-RAIN is the most immediate
transference of sensation that I can remember.
Roger Dee’s UNWELCOME TENANT is an
effective variation on the possession theme, most
convincing; and Oberfield’s ENORMOUS
WORD is notable for the language of the aliens.
McDowell’s MOON OF TREASON, with its
well-motivated fast-moving action contains a bit
of description in its fifth paragraph (the warming
of the space ship) which keeps a story real. Edi-
tors may come and go, but PLANET certainly
keeps spinning beautifully.

I must get in my pennyworth on the ‘what is
science-fiction’ question. I can’t see how you can
define a type of fiction by its effects and functions.
Science-fiction is certainly set apart from other
fiction only by its content, which seems to be the
doings of individuals as they are affected by scien-
tific discoveries and the scientific method. This

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112 PLANET STORIES

makes any happenings in the future admissable as
the proper content of science-fiction, as we seem
certain that the future will be at least partly deter-
mined by scientific discoveries, but it would also
allow the writing of DeKruif (if it had plot and
more direct characterization) in such works as
Microbe Hunters (and if the events were fictional,
not historical) to be accepted into the genre.

It is true that a steady diet of science-fiction
may have certain definite effects on a reader. I am
inclined to think that one of these effects is a sort
of pre-conditioning of society (that part of society
which reads the stuff) to accept and deal with the
improbable in an effective and mature way; but
that’s beside the point. Any fan who has tried to
‘sell’ science fiction to someone who can’t get the
point should know better than to judge science-
fiction by its ‘inevitable’ results.

I’d like to see first choice of pics go to A1 Wein-
stein for his paragraph on the blessings of science
and defense of scientists, although I disagree with
him here and there. Second place to Bob Silver-
berg who is an inspiration to careful reading and
loves The Vizi in spite of us. A third to Ray
Ramsay because I agree with practically every-
thing he says and I don’t want to give him a first
because it might sound too prejudiced in favor of
my own ideas. (That doesn’t sound quite right,
but there it is.)

One last remark which I trust will arouse your
sympathy, in spite of the fact that it will certainly
alienate the affections of the more superstitious
fans in the audience:

NO CHAIN LETTERS WILL BE FOR-
WARDED FROM 201 VETERANS VIL-
LAGE ! Betsy Curtis

So THAT’S why we didn’t get our $1,000,000!
Fie . . . fie . . . /

CALLING ALL FEN

Dear Editor :

All fans in Southwest Washington are asked to
get in touch with Tom Daniel at Brown-Elmores,
or Bill Weeks at 608 W. 1st St., Aberdeen, Wn.,
for the purpose of forming a new, and active, fan
group. No definite meetings have as yet been set,
but plenty of other ideas have come forth, such
as a club fanzine, and instructional and mechani-
cal activities that will excite anybody. No age or
other limits. Hurry, hurry ! ^ Daniel

AF 34117036
T/Sgt. Andre Von Bell,

35th Supply Squadron, Box 45
APO 994, c/o Postmaster
San Francisco, Calif.

Dear Editor :

. . . Would like to receive letters from other
fans, especially those in my home state, North
Carolina. Will try to answer all letters, and if any
of you guys or gals have any dog-eared or cover-
less copies you would care to send to a lonesome
airman here in Japan, I would certainly appreciate
’em very much . . .

From just another Fan,

T/Sgt. Andre V. Bell

Dear Editor :

For the past three months I have been attempt-
ing to organize a STFan club here on the Virginia

Peninsula. So far, my efforts have produced neg-
ligible results. As a last resort, which perhaps
should have been first, I have decided to try ad-
vertising in the prozines. So, I would appreciate
it very much if you would print this letter in THE
VIZIGRAPH.

If there are any STFen in the Newport News,
Hampton, Phoebus area who are interested in
forming such a club, would you please contact

C. Ray Bryan

305 N. 2nd St.

Buckroe Beach, Va.

Phone — Hampton 7734

Thank you very much,

C. Ray Bryan

*S ALL IN FUN. NO?

New York, N. Y.

Dear Mr. Bixby :

It is with a leer that I take up pen to write you.
a pome-card ... to wit :

ODE TO AN ODEROUS ISSUE

Oh, PLANET’s new chief
Is headed for grief,

For Larchmont is here with a pome.

With ink full of acid
And temper not placid,

He’s come to drive Bixby back home.

Your first issue's lousy,

The artwork is frowsy.

The yarns except Bradbury’s, stink.

You’ll have to do better
(’s the gist of this letter)

Or PLANET will topple the brink.

Don’t mind me, though — it was a pretty good
issue, all told. I’m just feelin’ blue, with a music
exam coming up tomorrow. WHAT AM I DO-
ING READING PS WHEN I SHOULD BE
CRAMMING ON ORCHESTRATION?

Scientifanatically yours,

Don Larchmont

It is unth the sad smile of a crushed rabbit that
we take up pen to answer ... your wit?

TAKING ISSUE WITH AN ODEROUS ODE

Oh, comments so churly
Do make us sore surly,

When Larchmont with meter morbific,

Does devastate PLANET,

Does heartlessly pan it,

When everyone KNOWS it’s tahrificl

His gumption is null,

He’s dull in the skull,

He has all the zest of a sobo,

The ethics of cobra,

Aesthetics of goat,

And knozvs not his brass from his oboe.

Beware . . . next time, Don, include your address
or your missive will be mislaid on purpose . . .
and bye the bye, are you a J Milliard Music School
student? If so, shake, pardner . . . many’s the hour
we’ve fingered the eighty-eight in those hallowed
practise-rooms. Luck with your exam.

Well... thanks, all and one, for a nice, well-
rounded Vizigraph. The November PLANET
STORIES will be on sale September 1st... see,
you then . . .

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week in spare time. Now have a spare
time shop in my home and earn as
high as $25 a week."— LEANDEK
ARNOLD, Pontiac. Michigan.

SERVICING IUSINESS PROFITABLE

“For the past two year*. I have been
operating my own Servicing business..

Net profit, $6,850. N.RJ. training Wj-x-Xvi-ag
made it possible." — PHILIP (J. i&jy &'JR
BROGAN. Louisville, Kentucky. SaB*-'***

GETS FIRST JOB THROUGH N.R.I.

"My first job, with KDLR, was ob-
tained for me by your Graduate Serv-
ice Dept. Am now Chief Engineer,
Police Radio Station WQOX." — T.
WW&VV S NORTON, Hamilton. Ohio.

SEES PROFIT IN RADIO TELEVISION

"I am operating my own Radio Sales
and Service business. With FM and
Television, we are looking forward to
a very profitable future.” — ALBERT
PATRICK. Tampa. Florida.

SPARE TIME SERVICE PAYS WELL

"Work only in spare time at Radio
and average about $40 a month. Knew
nothing about Radio before enrolling
with N.R.I.”— SAMUEL T. DEWALD.
St. Clair. Pennsylvania.

1. EXTRA MONEY
IN SPARE TIME

As part of my servicing course, I send you SPECIAL
BOOKLETS starting the day you enroll that show
how you can make $5, $10 or more a week EXTRA
fixing neighbors' Radios in spare time while learning.
Tester you build with parts I send helps.

2. COOD PAY JOB

Your next step is a good job installing and servicing
Radio-Television sets, or becoming boss of your own
Radio-Television Sales and Service Shop, or getting a
good job in a Broadcasting Station. In 1945, there were
943 Radio Stations. Today, about 2,700 are on the air!
Result — thousands of qualified men stepped into good
jobs. Then add developments in FM, Two-Way Radio,
Police, Aviation, Marine, Micro-wave Relay Radio.
Think what this means I New jobs, more jobs, good
pay for qualified men.

3. BRICHT FUTURE

And think of the opportunities in Television. Only
Stations were on the air in 1947. Today, more than
fifty. And the experts say there will be over 1,000
within three years. Manufacturers are producing over
100,000 Television sets a month. Be a successful Radio-
Television Operator or Technician . . . get in line for
success and a bright future in America’s fastest-grow-
ing industry!

I Will Train You at Home

You Practice Servicing or Communications

with MANY KITS

I’ve trained hundreds of men with no previous ex-
perience to be successful TECHNICIANS. I will
train you, too. Or now you can enroll for my NEW
practical course in Radio-Television Communica-
tions. Train for your FCC operator’s or techni-
cian’s license. You learn Radio-Television theory
from clear, illustrated lessons in my tested home
study courses.

As part of both my Servicing and Communica-
tions course, 1 send you MANY KITS of modern
equipment that ’’bring to life” theory you learn.

Building circuits, conducting experiments with
them, introducing and repairing defects, gives you
valuable, practical experience. (Some of the equip-
ment you get is shown below.) Everything 1 send
is yours to keep

Mail Coupon for Books FREE

Coupon entitles you to ACTUAL LESSON on
Radio Servicing with many pictures and diagrams
plus my 64-page book, “IIOW TO BE A SUCCESS
IN RADIO-TELEVISION” both FREE See
what mv graduates are doing and earning Send
coupon today J E. SMITH. President. Dept OF<J.
National Radio Institute. Pioneer Home Study
Radio School. Washington 9. D C

VETERANS

GET THIS TRAINING
WITHOUT COST
UNDER G. I. BILL.

MAVc COUPON NOW

mmSBB

tasm

You Build This MODERN RADIO

As part of my Servicing course. I send you
speaker, tubes, chassis, loop antenna,
transformer. EVERYTHING you
need to build this modern Radio Use
it to conduct many valuable tests and
practice servicing It’s
yours to keep. ...........

You Build This TRANSMITTER

As part of my New Communications course.
I send parts to build this low-power broad-
casting Transmitter that shows how to put a
station “on the air.” Perform procedures
demanded of Broadcast Station operators,
conduct many tests, experiments. It’s youis
to keep.

Good for Both - FRC£

MR. J. E. SMITH, President, Dept. OFG
National Radio Institute, Washington 9, D. C.

Mail me Sample lesson and 64-page Book about How to Win
Success in Radio-Television — both FREE. (No salesman
will call. Please write plainly. i

Name

Address

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City Zone.. State

□ Check if Veteran Approved Under G. I. Bill